


The Anatomy of a Camellia

by ThreeBs



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boss/Employee Relationship, Child Neglect, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, F/M, Family Dynamics, Family Issues, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gaslighting, Gen, Grooming, I Update Tags With New Chapter, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Suicide, Multi, OOC, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent-Child Relationship, Pedophilia, Sexual Content, Slow Romance, Triggers, Withdrawal, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-02-06 11:11:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 60,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12816264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeBs/pseuds/ThreeBs
Summary: Izaya has been pressed and thieved of his growth, withering by dual effort of nurture and nature.It's hard to blossom properly when surrounded by blooming weeds.





	1. Seed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shizuo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When a flower doesn't bloom, you fix the environment in which it grows, not the flower.  
> -Alexander den Heijer

It's Shizuo's seventh day visiting.

     Shinra pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and sunlight reflects off them, catching into Shizuo's eyes. A cigarette sits dry between his lips, sticking to them with the humidity of his mouth. Shizuo sets his nape on the back of the chair, closing his eyes with the first inhale of toxic smoke. His fingers catch on bleached strands with a certain rough elegance only he can muster before traveling down his neck, easing the constricting feeling around his collar by tugging at his bow tie. He releases a drawn-out sigh, and the smoke weaves with, “he pisses me off,” but there’s no palpable malice in his timbre, and the tone is wistful as opposed to gruff. In the distance, the sun sets under the skyline, and the metal of skyscrapers turn orange and pink, but when he opens his eyes, behind tinted sunglasses, Shizuo can only see in shades of blue.

      Shinra’s voice comes out bittersweet when he says, “I know,” a muted smile on his face. He doesn’t mind Shizuo’s company, but he knows the unsaid words concerning the reason why Shizuo keeps coming. He brings his arms to the cold railing, setting his chin on his inner elbow. His hair sways in the breeze, a halo on top by the light of dusk. There’s irregular rhythm in the tapping of his shoes, and he closes his eyes, breathing in the interlacing scent of tobacco, disinfectant, and strawberries. His eyelids open to stare at the people walking in a rush, umbrellas on hand, waiting for the rain he’s not sure will fall. Garbage overflows from waste containers and old chewed up gum sticks to concrete but Shinra’s eyes stay soft behind his clear glasses even as they aid him in seeing the city for what it truly is.

     In the small crowd, there's a child with black hair in a red shirt talking to his mother with a smile, wolf teeth blinding against the sunset. She looks at him with eyes half-lidded and a detached expression on her face. A tabby cat distracts him, meowing, claiming him by rubbing its body against his legs, its eyes full of wonder and affection. He picks it up, nuzzling his nose into the cat’s ginger fur. It jumps from his embrace, and when he tries to catch up to his mother, he falls. The cat cries, he gasps, but she doesn’t stop. With no tears on his cheeks, no voice calling “mom, please,” he stays in place, staring at her retreating back as if he expects her to notice like she’s meant to do something. He stands, dirt on black jeans, scrapes on palms, blood on arms, and lifeless, he follows her, but she can’t tell the difference between his presence or his absence.

Shizuo's veins appear around his neck, but Shinra laughs inside of his.

     Shizuo averts his gaze, a growl barely contained in the back of his throat. He shifts his vision from empty-afternoon streets, dead-end alleys, and gold tinted rooftops, but it’s been a little over a week and he can’t hear, “Shizu-chan,” anywhere. There’s hope tucked in the pockets of his vest and it weighs heavy on his chest when he stops by Shinra’s, only to be met with dissatisfaction, returning late at night to his home with nothing to show for. He bounces his leg in place, inhaling sharply around a cigarette, and his lungs catch on fire against the lowering temperature in the air, but the tension that grips his shoulders barely gives way. He exhales the smoke through his nose, losing the warmth that no longer quells gravity’s pull on the corners of his lips. He flicks the ash off the end of the butt and looks at Shinra now, who stares at the burning paper before diverting his gaze back at him, a contemplating glint in his eyes.

He doesn’t have to, but he feels the need to fill the silence.

     “I’m sure he’s planning some shit. I haven’t seen him in days,” and Shinra chuckles, shaking his head in disappointed disbelief. “He’s observing his beloved humans right now!” and each word is punctuated with his usual nonchalant cheerfulness. He waves his hands dramatically towards the city, eyes blown wide with maniacal enthusiasm. He nods his head absentmindedly, giggling. Shizuo is sure; Shinra has no idea what an honest thought should sound like. He leans back, letting his body sag against the support of the chair, his blond hair hovering in the air, caressing his forehead and the tip of his cold ears. He removes his sunglasses with a swift motion of the wrist and his eyes are gentle when they set in the general direction of Shinjuku.

     The day turns dark once the sun disappears below the horizon, and that’s how days pass, how unknown stories carry on. The purr of car engines can be heard from miles away, echoing through the stillness of the night. It is under the obscure, below the black blanket of security, when the city comes alive. In anonymity, people crawl out with gore and sex on their sleeves, prepared to drive fast and live with no breaks in sight, welcoming death young, but in the kitchen, Celty fills a kettle with water and watches as the blue flames touch the metal of the teapot. If she could, she would hum a tune of contentment, sing along to Japanese folklore. She takes a few pastries from the refrigerator and places them on the counter so they can lose some of their chill as the water boils.

Shinra's phone breaks the silence.

     He chuckles sheepishly at the way Shizuo jumps, startled, and in return, Shizuo furrows his eyebrows and throws him a narrow-eyed look, grumbling incoherent profanities and insults that he can’t pick up on. Shinra takes the device out of his lab coat and looks down at the contact’s name, leaping to his feet, leaving the chair rattling in place. Shizuo blinks, but before he can put any thought to words, Shinra blurts out, “Sorry, I have to take this,” and springs off, shoulder meeting door frame and hip hitting the corner of the sofa. A few steps further and he stumbles over his own shoes, fumbling with the phone until it falls, battery cover clattering on the floor, and, "shit," comes under his breath, clear and flustered, but the phone keeps ringing incessantly, like a fire siren at dawn, like a church bell at a funeral, crackling the calm.

    Shinra makes it to the guest room and sits on the edge of the bed. The sheets are soft under his fist, but he can’t feel the silk, and he takes a deep breath, holding it in as he answers the phone and brings it to his ear. There’s silence, there’s static, there’s a voice, and Shinra’s lungs clean out of air.

"Hello? What's wrong?"

“Take the medication.”

“I don’t care what you want!”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Wait for me.”

"I promise, I'll see you later.”

“No, I won't forget."

"I know, I know.”

“You did? Good.”

“If you want you can go to bed.”

“I’m sure you’ll fall asleep eventually.”

"Ok. Yes. I promise. See you soon."

     He snaps the phone shut and lets it fall into the pocket of his coat with a sigh. He stands, dragging his feet on the floor like a dying worm. He sits on the couch and stares down at the palm of his hand as if he could find the meaning of the universe between the slightly crooked headline, and an almost undetectable heart line. Shizuo puts outs his cigarette and enters the apartment, closing the glass door behind him. The temperature change is instant, the living room being much warmer than the world out in the balcony, where his nose had tinted pink, and his skin roused. He allows his weight to drop on the gray single, facing Shinra. He separates his legs, and he appears as casual as someone who woke up on a Sunday afternoon, but his stomach is in knots, and he doesn’t know why; Shinra is not running in a panic, there aren't any guts splattered across the carpet, and he doesn’t even know who was on the other side of the line, but the memory, the feeling he got by that phone call, keeps him high-strung.

"Sorry about that, you know how it's like, the life of an underground doctor and such! Celty, dear! What type of tea are you making?"

[Chamomile]

"Ah, how wonderful! Perfect selection! Leave some. For later."

She angles her PDA so Shizuo can't see.

[Is... everything alright?]

"Oh, nothing much my dear Celty. A few pastries will do, lemon perhaps?"

[I'll prepare a box.]

She walks back to the kitchen, where the teapot whistles.  
   
     Celty pours milk into a cup, placing it in front of Shizuo and he drops six sugar cubes into the bamboo mug, mixing the hot tea, allowing for the sugar to dissolve as the white turns into a slight cream. Shizuo cuts a piece of cheesecake, fork glimmering under the yellow light, clinking against ceramic as he takes a bite into his mouth, purring around it. Shinra watches amused, “Don’t you think that’s overkill?” Shizuo blinks and stares at Shinra’s goofy smile, following his line of sight, and he places the back of his hand in front of his lips as he laughs, the vibrations moving around his chest in a pleasant current he hasn’t felt in days. His eyes crinkle, the muscles in his face start to hurt, and he gulps the barely chewed up piece by the interruption. Still smiling, he takes a deep breath to steady his voice and says, “Y’know I like sweets,” and Celty slaps her knee, shoulders pushing and pulling in on themselves as she giggles by the understatement.  

    Celty wonders if this is the way it will always be; tan colored walls, mahogany wooden flooring, grey cushions, and Izaya making his way into their conversations. It's a mystery to her, much like the man himself. There's something about his name, she realizes, that is strangely romantic. Even when it's hate, even if it's admiration, his name travels through open parks in murmurs of the innocent and dark backstreets in growls of the guilty; it's always so distinct, so pleasing to the ears, she imagines that it must be nice on the tongue too. He's infamous; known in neighboring cities and countries overseas; an urban legend, much like 'the black rider' or 'the monster of Ikebukuro;' he's 'the informant of Shinjuku.'

“He should just stay out of Ikebukuro,” and she’s certain, he doesn’t really mean that.

“May I give you some advice? You may disregard it, of course."

“About?” It’s not like Shizuo doesn’t know, but he asks anyway.

“Orihara-kun, who else?” and Shinra’s smile turns condescending.

His teeth ache, heartbeat accelerates, blood rushes to his ears, but it’s not anger, and it's not hate, and when he says, “ok,” the two-letter word drones with finality in a low register.

Celty is stunned by the ease with which Shizuo agrees, but Shinra isn’t all that surprised.

     “I’m going to tell you a secret,” and Shinra takes a bite from his slice of lemon cake, chewing slowly, stealing time from under Shizuo’s feet like he knows this is what he’s been waiting for the entire week. Shizuo can feel his fist coil, adrenaline sparking his short-temper, and he sees the moment Shinra notices his fisted hands, but he only tilts his head to the side while showing his derisive fox teeth, a sly expression on his face. The thought of breaking Shinra’s arm again is incredibly tempting. He watches him take his glasses off, cleaning them with his coat, placing them back on his nose, and Shizuo must count from ten to one as Shinra finally finishes drinking his lukewarm tea.

      Shinra tends to be evasive when he speaks, spurting riddles and vague suggestions, if not deflating the topic altogether. In the same vein, Shinra doesn’t talk about Izaya at all, unless asked, and his word count is limited by reiterating what the person believes Izaya to be, or lying by saying he knows nothing, even if he’s heard all the details straight out of Izaya’s tongue. Therefore, when Shinra leans forward, holding himself up with his forearm on the table, shifting his eyes side to side before curving his hand around his mouth and whisper-shouts, “Orihara-kun is fond of you!” Shizuo can all but feel his jaw slacken with an, "Oh," and he looks at Celty who nods her neck as if she understands that he needs the assurance of Shinra’s truthfulness.

He blinks a couple of times, and the word fond ricochets in the muscles of his face as they try to pull into a smile.

The thought of Izaya not hating him is like a pure shot of tobacco into his bloodstream.

“Yes! He was quite excited to meet you!” He sighs in mock grief. “But alas, that was crushed straight out of him, not blaming anyone in particular, of course,” and Shinra stares pointedly at him, his laughter grating against Shizuo’s guilt.

“Now that we have the basics down-” he clears his throat, “-you always announce yourself to him, and anyone else in a hundred-mile radius, when you see Orihara-kun, correct?”

“Yeah, so?” he raises an eyebrow.

“Even if he does nothing?”

“Well, yeah, but-”

“What if you don’t?”

“What?”

“Instead, why don’t you pull an ‘Izaya’ on him! Yes! That would be perfect! Follow him around, watch him, It might be compensating, don’t you think? I’m certain Orihara-kun can turn out to be quite the fasci-"

“This plan of yours is shit.”

"What? How? It's brilliant!"

[It’s not.]

Shinra gasps, hand on chest in a poor imitation of hurt. “Celty! How can you side with him! Shizuo-kun, if you want to kill him, this is the way to go! Running after him hasn’t worked, so, why not jump him?!”

"The entire city fucking shrieks when I leave my front door and you think he won't notice me casually stalking him like some kind of creep?!”

Celty nods.

“Wouldn’t it be fun if he did catch you though?”

“No, It wouldn’t!”

[Stop that!]

Shinra raises both hands in surrender, and with a kind of exasperation in his voice says, “ok, ok,” like he doesn’t understand why no one laughs at his peculiar brand of humor. “Look, I’m only suggesting that you give him the same amount of attention you already do, but differently. Aren’t you a bit curious to see what you can discover about Orihara-kun? Not even a little?”

“…no…?” Shizuo almost face-palms at how soft and unsure his voice sounds.

In a sing-song tone, “Of course you aren’t!” and Shinra cackles, high-pitched and jarring, sounding both sincere and underhanded. His eyebrows are raised and his eyes almost glint red, like Shizuo is an open book who wears his intentions, his emotions, on the tip of his fingers, and Shizuo can see it clearly now, can see Izaya in Shinra, or is it the other way around? They're like people who begin to share the same mannerism after too much time together; and even if Shinra is surgical, and Izaya is automatic, they are both sharp, metallic blades.

"You don't have to, but I think it will be good! This coming from Orihara-kun's friend."

"Since when?” It’s not disbelief, it’s an accusation.

“Eh? I’ve always been his friend.”

"Never would have guessed.” It’s an insult, and Shinra recognizes the jab but ignores it.

“It's just a thought; you do whatever you want!"

Shizuo lets the silence expand between them, he has nothing left to say.

“You know Shizuo, you really don’t know Izaya,” and his voice is soft like the tilt of his lips, a melancholic expression on his face.

Shizuo finishes his cold drink, thanks them, and leaves.

\----------

 

Shizuo’s afternoons have become peaceful, dull.

     He lies on his worn-out futon playing with the lighter, spinning it around his fingers. The faint sound of the plastic when it hits the top of his nails echoes in the otherwise silent apartment. He thinks of his insufferable doctor friend and the nonsense he speaks, the babbling jumble of words Shizuo can’t ignore. He ruffles his hair, lights a cigarette between fingers and inhales the poisonous fumes into his desolated lungs. The air whistles as it passes through the window to caress his bare chest. The curtains sway in the corner of his vision, but he stares at the city lights against the darkness of the night.

     It’s been ten years total since Shizuo’s known Izaya but it’s been nine since the last time Shizuo felt anything remotely close to hate for the informant. Following him around and screaming lies is a habit he likes to keep, part of his daily routine that he’s missed for little over a week. It’s strange; Izaya’s silence, his lack of presence, it creates a cloud of dread that screams of Izaya fleeting like sand in a storm breeze behind Shizuo’s back. He doesn’t want to believe there’s anything truly wrong but Shizuo is a being of intuition and the few times he’s ignored his gut instinct he ended up in more trouble than it was worth.

     There’s an insatiable craving deep in his stomach for the itch of warm sweat pouring down his temple and low in his abdomen, he can feel a yearning for the chase. He throws the cigarette out the window and he wouldn’t mind watching it burn the city down into ashes if only to catch a glimpse of Izaya’s arms outstretched on a taunt like a dragon’s wings. He would create a blaze himself if to hear Izaya spur that godforsaken nickname, scalding under his fiery pink tongue. The crackling of his shoes, the dark hair springing like it does, when Izaya skips to his own beat. He wants the smooth of a black fur-lined coat to be close to the touch, just like the vision of red sequins that swim in Izaya’s irises that can only be seen when being mere inches away from his face. He doesn’t remember when it occurred but he imagines it was before graduation when thoughts of Izaya had diverted to imagining the feel of his lips left raw by Shizuo’s own teeth. Even now, there’s an endearing desire to watch bruises emerge on Izaya’s skin only if caused by love bites instead of ferocity. In his teens, as well as his mid-twenties, Shizuo finds himself with words of admiration and beauty pushing down on his sternum when he so much as thinks Izaya's near.

     It’s not love. He can’t be in love with someone he doesn’t know. Izaya is a mirage of images he recollects through the years. The noir-haired is an abstract painting, a vague metaphorical poem, an aloof tale of a famous character that may have existed or perhaps it’s a figment of someone’s imagination altogether. Izaya’s face is unreadable when he isn’t smirking, and even back when they were sixteen there was nothing that could tell Shizuo of who he was or how he felt, in fact, he might have been quieter, even more of a dying star, too hot and too far for an idiot like Shizuo to grasp. Perhaps, that’s why Shizuo never tried hard to befriend him, never tried to change the rules of their games, maybe it was just easier that way.

_You leave well enough alone_ but Shizuo won’t anymore and he wonders if a change is something Izaya wants, something he’s open to.

     Shizuo stands, walking into the kitchen and opening the refrigerator, trembling slightly by the sudden chills. He picks up his left-over lunch and warms it up, eating a banana, an apple, and two cookies in the process. In the distance, Shooter’s robotic neigh can be heard, and Shizuo cocks an eyebrow before shrugging soon after, turning the news on as background noise. The fried rice is hot and cold in different places but he eats, ignoring how weird the two temperatures feel on his tongue around the grains. The rice doesn’t last long, and he drinks some strawberry milk to wash it down, eating a piece of chocolate cake and melon bread right after.

Shizuo falls asleep to the distant sound of infomercials and Izaya’s genuine smile behind eyelids; his name dying in a whisper before he reaches unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first fanfic. Enjoy!
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments below!  
> -3B


	2. Roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izaya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible Triggering Content!  
> 

A bottle of half-orange, half-green pills stands on the coffee table.

     Namie flips papers on her side of the desk and the sound fuses with the rhythm of Izaya's finger tapping the spine of books on his shelf. He walks, sway on his hips, barefoot and silent; just another ghost. His breath bounces off the walls, echoing in the impersonal corners of the hollow loft. He slides a red hardcover novel out unto his palm, a gift on a day he doesn’t remember from a faceless father he doesn’t recognize. The weight of two-hundred and fourteen pages bring solace to his heart even if the black signature of a familiar stranger is a throbbing stab wound to his chest. Elbow on the table, she outstretches her arm, his glasses on her open hand. He reaches out and his fingers are soft against her skin, the cold breeze of his gentle movement raising the hairs on her neck. He places the frameless glasses on the bridge of his nose, and the swivel chair creaks as he sits. He opens the back cover and engrosses himself at the end of the story. 

She can’t admit he’s a corpse if when the sun sets on the west his skin glows gold.

“Namie, do you think it's true?"

"What is?"

"If I talk about it I'll end up missing them too?"

     The silence is kept by each repeated beat of the long needle. She shifts one leg atop the other as he stands, swift, shoulder blades expanding like wings. Hair in disarray, purple shadows under his maroon eyes and with her sharp vision she captures his displeased smile. She moves her gaze downwards and drags the pen on paper, the sound soothing against the surface. Numbers and letters; he has everyone who’s ever lived in Ikebukuro and Shinjuku as pliable pieces on a board with names in memorized positions and possible functions. She catches _Yagari Namie_ on a cream-colored folder but she doesn’t bite the bait, doesn’t read the file, and she denies it's because she craves his trust. She would never confess that each laugh he sends over her incestuous tendencies and every scowl she makes over his blasphemous inclinations are pretenses; habitual banter. 

     He passes by her and the air around him is scented with lemon cake. He places the book back on its spot, blending in with the rest of the red spines on the shelf. He glances back at her, the light reflecting high on her cheekbones, before he turns, dragging his feet down the steps to the living room. She’s there; he can see her in his peripheral vision, just as he can see the people in the far-off windows of adjacent buildings, but solitude spreads around him in infinite loops. He’s transparent, unseen, disappearing in a world that unravels and shifts without him. _"Orihara-kun, an unsteady head doesn’t help a heart._ ” He stares at the offending brown bottle on the coffee table and wonders if this is what paradise is meant to be; a place filled with unrecoverable things, a place where he can’t recognize the person who wears his skin and talks in his voice each time he drinks a plastic bullet filled with powdered poison.

     Izaya isn’t trying to deny that sometimes he drops glasses just to hear them break, that he doesn’t shred pictures he saves to hear the rip, that he hasn’t set his game board on fire multiple times just to admire the flames. He can’t pretend that he doesn’t take words to heart, that he hasn’t thought of suicide more than once, that he doesn’t like the way Shizuo’s name rolls off his tongue. Izaya doesn’t deny his selfishness, but he’s still not as selfish as Shinra; a friend who sees him as a forgotten experiment, an unimportant specimen he studied and prodded, but he’s not Celty and so, Shinra can’t get his head out her shadows enough to concern himself with anything else for a long period of time.

Izaya resents the fact that he’s the one that cares.

     Namie hears the audible shake in Izaya’s breath, hears the snap of the cap opening and the slight tap of a ceramic mug lifting. She watches his head tilt back, blue lines on the white skin of his neck. She sees the pill drop in his mouth from trembling fingers, Adam’s apple dipping as he swallows it with a gulp of cold chamomile tea. The door closes with a soft thud, no words shared, and alone, she glares at the bottle as if it has personally offended her.

\----------

     The noise of the world mutes with the slow burn wait for the day to turn dark. Izaya feels grown up in the backseat of Shiki’s car. It’s nonsensical, but he manages a small smile behind bitten nails; a bad habit he’s acquired, much like allowing Shiki’s hand to trail over his thighs as if reading braille. Shiki complains about work; how hard business has become. Izaya blurs his voice in the back of his head as another rattle of the engine, another bump on tar. Shiki drapes his wrist over Izaya’s shoulder, knuckles brushing against his neck. Shivers travel down his spine, eyes flutter close; he’s fifteen all over again. Shiki grabs at his elbow with a rough tug and he continues to talk like nothing’s changed. Izaya winces, forearm twisted between their pressed bodies, he’s never been more estranged. Long sleeves, black coat, heater on, fast pulse; they're too close, and Izaya can't grasp on air as if a giant malignant mass was lodged inside his lungs.  

     He pries his eyes apart, a myriad of colors shadowed by tinted windows. He stares outside where houses stay the same, where roads are fragmented, waiting years to be fixed. He focuses on stop lights, and from where he sits, he wants to will the steering wheel until all that's left is splattered guts on polished steel. He wants to speak to Shiki like there’s something left to say, but the thoughts dissolve as if he had nothing on his mind, and the few words he can remember catch in his trachea, so he keeps silent; he's gotten good at it.

     Shiki smokes his fourth cigarette in the ten minutes he's sat in the car. The leather seats smell of burnt nicotine and so does his cashmere suit. There's an agitated humming in each minute mark, each lowering movements of the sun, and Izaya's arm is numb. Shiki brings a full glass of vodka in front of Izaya's face, and he scrunches up his nose before licking his lips, tossing his hair, and turning on a smile, faking laughter, catching invisible strings of bravado. He takes a few too many sips, and he knows this ritual is archaic, but Izaya's successful at keeping his eyes closed even when they're blown wide. He constantly allows the battles to choose him, permitting the restless dog day heat to make way with him. It's non-consensual, but even if he cries out, he will still be hit where the discolored skin is. Shiki can be delicate except when he's in search for blood, and he hates to admit it, but somewhere inside himself, his heart desires the calculated care he's given if only to feel human warmth against his liver.

He swears he doesn't think about death, he doesn't; until he does.

Underneath discontent and rejection, he’s thankful; Shiki doesn’t kiss him on the lips anymore.

\----------

    Shiki is a sunstroke in the middle of the hottest summer afternoon. Izaya breathes in rapid gasps with every short, sudden, harsh thrust. Sandpaper lips on his collarbone and muggy fingers on his hips; _revolting_. Shiki can’t make Izaya curl his toes, can’t make his spine flex, can’t make Izaya’s nail scrape at his back the way he could when Izaya was a touch starved teenager captivated by the illusion of love. Lies always feel good, taste divine, when they come out of the tongue of a tsuchinoko. Sheets perfumed with artificial Sakura petals make Izaya dizzy, complaisant, dejected. He averts his gaze to the side where an ironed baby pink blouse hangs from the armchair next to an aster patterned cushion Shiki obviously didn’t choose; it’s clearly a woman’s touch.

     When Shiki caresses his cheek and grunts, “ _Izaya_ ,” all he remembers is music playing in the back signaling for the beginning of the ceremony and Shiki’s lips around him, his throat tasting, smelling of Izaya, before walking down the aisle. He can see with clarity as he sits on the back bench listening to Shiki’s gruff voice say, “I do,” to someone else. He can feel Shiki’s fingers digging deep into him after kissing the bride, after dancing with her, after proclaiming faithfulness until his dying days. He remembers feeling dirty and used, much like he still does. Shiki doesn't even have the decency to hide the fact that he's been inside her today, smelling like her beneath the alcoholized cologne. Scolding between her wide hips; does she wrap her legs, knees pulled in around him? Her voice must be so lovely when she whines for more; does it have a hard-sweet taste too? He used to groan " _further_ ," mumbled " _deeper_ ", stifled " _harder_ ;" Izaya used to feel, used to desire, now he only plays along with fleeting want.

      Shiki sucks on the junction between his neck and shoulder, magenta bruise left in the shape of his mouth. He hits the spot in Izaya that makes his sight falter and moan but it stops; Shiki isn’t that generous anymore, not since he was a teenager, less used, less touched, more childlike, more like how Shiki wants to remember him by. Arms lifeless on his side, crucified to the mattress, and legs apart haphazardly with mild discomfort on the joint between thigh and hip. He’s sure if he was slightly more aware of where he is, it might hurt more. Shiki shudders, exhaling shaky tobacco breath on Izaya’s face, and he comes inside him, as he always does. His weight falls on Izaya’s ribs and it’s suffocating, but he barely notices the lack of oxygen going to his brain.

Shiki smiles with affection, like it will fix the million shards of broken glass in Izaya’s eyes, and mutters, “You’re beautiful,” and Izaya knows, but the word has lost its meaning.

     Shiki’s dry lips scrape at his chest, sharp canines press on his abdomen and he shapes his mouth like water around him. Izaya can’t keep a moan down, can’t stop his throat from closing in on a breath when Shiki knows the rhythm that works as if he’s studied Izaya’s body like an instrument. He knows where and when to press his tongue until Izaya’s bones tense and lock. There’s pressure on his lower belly, there’s a racing heart, and Izaya’s waterline stings with self-loathing in the wake of his own body’s betrayal. Shiki misses when Izaya’s voice used to be foolish and trusting, misses when it was higher with aflame as he called his name. He wants Izaya’s smooth hands to pull on his hair, pressing him, nose first, into himself but he can’t pinpoint when everything changed, when Izaya became a stranger he knows. Izaya comes silently and when Shiki looks to his face, he finds impassiveness, unfocused eyes trained at the ceiling, and a limp body mirroring a stunning carcass.

Shiki doesn't let him come during sex because the act is meaningless, but he swallows him up like it’s intimate like Izaya can’t see past the reverse psychology.

Izaya controls the urge to vomit.

\----------

     Lukewarm water, soft bubbles, late nights, more muddles. Izaya sits at the bottom of the bathtub with Shiki's finger pads on his scalp, like his mother did once; in a dream. He closes his eyes and leans into the touch, instinctual, like the lost malnourished child of a bird of prey. He pretends he's drunk, more than what he truly is; it's the only reason why he yearns for this, _it must be_. Shiki's hand travels down his back, circling over his stomach, grasping at him under the soap. He distorts his awareness until Shiki's skin fades until his body seems to be further away. "I'm tired," even if his mind is bursting with bright colliding colors. Shiki laughs, "You secretly love this,” and Izaya wishes he was drunk enough to ignore it all. He allows Shiki to continue the friction, hand gripping firmer than necessary, but it doesn't matter how much motion he instills on his wrist, Izaya isn't aroused. He forces a noise from the back of his throat that sounds more pained than pleasured. He focuses all his energy on faking tremors around his body, moving his legs more than he should so the vibrations can travel through his muscles into Shiki's fist. He makes the water ripple, and he allows a last exhale before dropping his head on Shiki's shoulder. Shiki lets him go, oblivious to the fact that Izaya didn’t climax; he wasn’t even hard.

     Shiki dresses Izaya in a robe, smooth and warm, but he can imagine the silk is his wife’s skin; it is hers, after all. Shiki’s arms around him is a pleasant reassuring pressure next to the strong heartbeat that thumps steadily on his back. He kisses Izaya’s behind his ear and its validation, acknowledgment until he breathes in from the crook of his neck. “You smell good,” but Izaya’s aware that he smells like her instead of anything else Shiki might like. His body misses the touch when Shiki frees his limbs from his torso but his hands are on him, pushing him on the bed, and he falls as if in slow motion. He’s to Shiki an expensive collectible rag doll that has lost value over the years. Shiki's fingers tangle themselves in black strands, just the way Izaya likes it, the way it makes him amenable. “Even if no one else can see your worth, I do. I always will. You know that, right?” Izaya hums more for effect than actual believability in Shiki’s empty words. The lies make his logic fall, feet spin, but when he sways, vertigo in his head, Shiki doesn’t so much as pretend to catch him and so, he’s learned not to believe in the gray hollow promises anymore. Izaya lies too, however. He doesn’t feel the same way he did when he was fourteen. He doesn’t admire Shiki, doesn’t want him, doesn’t love him, barely tolerates him, but the thought of Shiki wanting someone else, loving someone else, disposing of, abandoning, Izaya as if he was nothing aches in his lungs; makes him want to cry.

Izaya is certain; he has only himself to blame.

“It’s time for you to leave, Izaya-kun. My wife and Akabayashi will be here soon.” Shiki doesn’t mention how Izaya’s face contorts into a frown with the dismissal.

     Izaya is automatic and robotic in the slow movements he makes to dress himself. Shiki feels uncomfortable, something he’s not too familiar with, while he watches Izaya, seemingly, disconnected from himself. Shiki outstretches his arm and the white of his eyes show, upfronted, as Izaya all but steps back in the same apathetic manner. There’s emptiness in his pupils, unconcerned and listless, as he locks eyes with Shiki. He walks away with no farewell, not a word, but the room’s wooden door hits hard against the frame, wedding pictures rattling on the dresser, and Shiki stays in place, features hardening by the strange display.

     Shiki’s wife jumps from where she stands in the hallway, midway to putting her slippers on. She’s seen him before; a business associate of her husband. He looks at her from the corner of his eyes and stops next to her. She doesn’t know what Shiki does when they’re alone, she doesn’t know he walks naked in her home, she doesn’t know business extends to the sheets too, and she rather pretend she doesn’t know as to not let Shiki go. He smiles at her, a little off-kilter, and she does the same.

He can hear her heart break; she can hear his too.

Outside, Akabayashi stares. "Orihara-san?" and he looks like he wants to say more but he doesn't and that's his problem.

“Akabayashi-san," and he leaves, head held high.

\----------

     Glass doors open and the electric bell chimes with Izaya’s presence exiting the convenient store. He stands on the sidewalk, teeth catching neon pink hues and eyes reflecting bright red lights. He takes the wrapping off, drops it in his pocket, and opens the carton, placing a cigarette between fingers. The sound of his thumb pressing against the flint wheel of the lighter travels through the empty streets. Instantly, paper catches on fire and he inhales, mint flavor washing over the roof of his mouth. He blows, watching the smoke disappear into the heavy clouds of pollution. He smiles as his ears recognize Shooter’s neigh, and down a few blocks, he sees the black rider and the monster of Ikebukuro racing into the night. His black hair catches sequins of blue stars and his shoes tap on concrete, a lilt jump to his step as he walks to Shinjuku.

It doesn’t take him long to reach his complex and click open the lock of his loft.

     Namie stands in front of the door, watching the handle turn. Izaya enters the apartment, smirk in place, and he lets the door swing shut behind him. He stands before her, back straight, hands in pockets. She trails her eyes across his body, half expecting to see him bleeding out, and half waiting for him to collapse on the spot. She finds proof of neither. He raises an eyebrow and she shifts her gaze, taking a sip of tea, refusing to breathe out an audible puff of relief. He walks past her, shoulder bumping shoulder. He takes his trademark coat off and drops it on the arm of the couch. That’s when she notices the love bite on the curve of his neck, but she doesn’t ask; she doesn’t want to know. She focuses on his lazy smile instead, glassy lashes dropping close.

“I like peppermint.” 

“I thought you were dead,” she says with a little more force that necessary, emotions  drenching the words.

“Wouldn’t you like that?” He asks, curious, skeptical, sarcastic, and surprised in equal measures.

"Where have you been?"

"Why?"

"You’re a cowardly rat.”

“Isn’t that your specialty? I’m sorry I’m irresistible to you but you’re not my type, Namie.”

“No, of course not, I’m missing a penis,” she says in a deadpan tone, hiding the tilt of her lips behind the mug.

He laughs before his face turns somber, lilt subdued. "Do you think Shizu-chan misses me?"

"Maybe."

"I like maybe. You're dismissed Namie. I apologize for being late.”

“Don’t do it again.”

“Of course! I’ll let you know next time!”

She leaves the empty cup on her side of the desk and locks the door on her way out.

     Alone, his smile fades, and up the stairs, in his bathroom, he turns the scalding water on. Izaya’s nights are silent, vacant, and familiar. When he takes a step out of the shower and looks in the mirror, his skin is red as he scrubbed with the intention to be left raw; clean. He lights the multiple cigarettes scattered around his room and lays on the bed, face up, wet and naked. He stares at the swirling motion of the smoke, the scent of burn mint surrounding him, engulfing his senses like incense. The sound of him gasping echoes and it turns into a whimper as he drifts away in a haze, tears on his pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The novel Izaya read is "Catcher in the Rye," and its 214 pages long.  
> The question he asks Namie is paraphrasing the last two lines of the novel which reads: Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.  
> \---  
> Are there any errors? Let me know in the comments below!  
> Tell me what you think!  
> -3B


	3. Phloem Vessel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izaya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phloem Vessel: A tissue that conducts food throughout the plant.
> 
> Possible Triggering Content.

**DOLLAR$**

"Are the Giants of the City Dead?"

* * *

      The linoleum is cold against Izaya's flushed skin. Sweat falls from his temples, rolling down his smoldering neck to the small of his back. His cheeks are tinted pink and the bridge of his nose tingles as if blood has stopped circulating to his face. Hand on throat, trachea closing in, he gasps for air in quick successions, fighting the ocean in his lungs. Mouth open on a silent scream, he chokes on a sharp inhale, struggling to swallow downy feathers on his dry tongue. Fast pulse, heart beating slow, hitting hard against his breastbone. Arms shaking with his weight, unsteady fingers reaching out, and nails scraping on the floor, cracked and bleeding. He crawls on weak knees, moving backward, stumbling on his own constricted limbs and prickling toes. He falls upside-down, drifting, dropping chest first. The angle of his legs catches under his backbone, head under the bed. The walls close in on him and his eyes are wide, shifting across the dimly lit room. In the clutches of the vivid unknown, whispered scattered thoughts scream: _You’re dying! I’m dying!_

      On a heat daze, the world around him spins uncontrollably inside his unfocused pupils. He can see himself lying on the floor, a pitiful creature, and he jolts, jumping back into himself. His abdomen cramps, nausea flairs, spine spasms, and his vocal chords strangle themselves, shattering with the effort to push the words out between his ebbing self-control. “It’s just a panic attack,” comes out calm, as if the careless clarification will help with the issue at hand, and then, “breathe,” is said in Namie’s commanding timbre, as if that is sufficient to halt the outburst, as if he was a child throwing a needless tantrum.

      She maneuvers his body between her legs, pulling her skirt towards her stomach. She holds him close to herself, trying to contain his convulsions. She places his ear on her chest, knowing the sound of her paced heart may help ease his overcharged nerve system. His skin is sensitive and hyperaware; when she draws circles over his hand with her thumb, the hairs on the exposed flesh rise. He quivers with each gasp of breath he takes and tears trail down his cheek, forming damp smudges on his shirt. Every pour trembles, but his breathing begins to calm and his sobs mute into small hiccups and quite snuffles. She drags a cotton ball drenched in alcohol around his bleeding fingers, but he doesn’t flinch. She wraps bandages on top of his nails tightly, eight in total, but he remains unresponsive. She releases his hands and furrows her eyebrows when they fall limp beside him before he embraces himself. As she shifts positions to cradle him, he detangles himself from her and leans against the bed frame, mind terribly blank as the thoughts rush through him, too fast to catch up.

“You’re alright. It will pass,” and it did.

     The walk down the stairs is a treacherous process, like going down the nine circles of hell. His knuckles turn white on the railing and his forehead creases with the force of his concentration. She can clearly see the wound-up coils in his shoulders, the set grinding of teeth with the tense shape of his lips, and the wince that settles in the corners of his eyes with each millimeter he moves forward. Her open palm is outstretched, hanging in the air, while he pretends she hasn't offered any help. She supposes it’s a good sign he's still this stubborn, holding on to unnecessary pride. She can't imagine that he doesn't realize he's standing on trembling legs that can't properly hold his bones up, can't catch the error of his stiff muscles if he so much as slips, but he stops, not even halfway down the stairs, to catch at his stolen ragged breath. Next to his thigh, he forms a fist, frustration clear in the veins that rise on the back of his hand. He slogs, gaze fixed on each step he takes, as if the very act of blinking can cause the stairs to dissipate before his very eyes, like fog in a summer’s day afternoon.

     On the very last step, he frees his feet from the slippers, toes touching the floor first, allowing the cold to enter through the sole, traveling inside his legs towards his spine, and expanding like a river from his shoulder blades. A shuddered exhale, and he treks towards the sofa. When Namie takes hold of his forearm to help him down to the living room, he doesn’t protest, but he does start with the touch. He lies sideways on the gray sectional, cocooning himself in soft faux-fur blankets; the delicate fibers tickling his neck. The hem catches on the bandages, and the pull between both materials sting on his spoilt nails. His chest no longer hurts; his heart all but calm now, but his senses remain on high alert, and he can still feel tremors vaguely tugging and shoving in his bloodstream.

      Izaya blinks slowly with the weight of his lashes drooping his lids, but they don’t remain close, and the bruises under his eyes speak of long sleepless nights, adjusting towards sunlight, spent this way. He yawns, but sleep won’t cease the triggers that generate painful exploding flickers behind the darkness of his eye sockets. Secretly, he blames his mother, who gave him life, gave him this overactive mind, but he doesn’t want an apology, he just wants to rest for a few hours a day. He yearns for unconsciousness to envelope him in its warmth, and he can almost feel the urge to pull at his hair by the sheer power of boring, infuriating, exhaustion.

“I’ll make you some valerian tea.”

“Coffee.” His hoarse voice disagrees with the smooth lower tones of Namie's words.

“You’ll get wired.” 

“I need to be functional if I'm going to be an insomniac."

“Fine.” She huffs, as if brewing a cup of coffee was any more trouble than a kettle of tea. 

The chatroom notification tune comes through the speakers of his cellphone, and Izaya would never admit to jumping at the noise.

\----------

**Private Messaging**

Gaki: Orihara-san.

_Kanra is online_

Kanra: May I ask why you're contacting me?

Gaki: Awakusu Mikiya has just been named heir to the Awakusu-Kai. He's aware we think of him as a weak link and unfit for the position. He's gotten it in his head that he can prove himself if he tames that lad, Heiwajima. 

Kanra: Go on. 

Gaki: He plans to fire him by hiring the services of a biker gang unrelated to the Awakusu. The mess would cause the bar to separate themselves from his name and reputation.

Kanra: How did he come to this conclusion?

Gaki: Sir Shiki.

Kanra: I see.

Gaki: You do with this information as you please.

Kanra: Will do. 

_Kanra is offline_

_Gaki is offline_

_\----------_

     Izaya is not lost when he doesn't obliterate what he holds, when he doesn't annihilate the people around him; that's not who he is, but that’s not to say he wouldn’t do it, that he can’t find pleasure in watching bleeding teeth scrape against asphalt to those he deems deserving. He can't help imagining Shiki skinned alive for his audacity to involve Shizuo's name under the Awakusu's radar, for making him the object of want for someone as inconsequential and unworthy as Mikiya. Izaya wants to be logical, wants to rely on his observational skills, but his intuition makes a point of throwing in the forefront; personal. He can picture Shiki smirking down at him, convinced Izaya doesn't know, confident that even if he did, he wouldn't dare counterattack.

    Izaya can feel the adrenaline assault his arteries, can feel the fleeting high of excitement rippling through his frontal lobe. His arms still twitch with the remnant of dominating anxiety, but the temporary distraction standstills his brain’s incessant begging for melatonin. The gears in his mind start to shift, rotate, falling into place with new-found purpose. It’s a little foggy, a little unsure through the medicated mist, but he can still grasp the ideas forming behind his darkened lashes.

He switches his profile account and opens a new window. 

\----------

**Private Messaging**

_Chrome is online_

Shinichi: Chrome-san, can I interest you in any information this fine morning?

Chrome: Mikiya.

Shinichi: I know of plans to ruin your precious monster's life. Yes?

Chrome: Information.

Shinichi: Awakusu Akane. I hear she knows about her family's line of work. I'm sure you'll give her a helping hand, am I correct, Chrome?

Chrome: Gang. 

Shinichi: Dragon Zombie. They have already been contacted. The leader is Li-pei Ei, but you already knew that, didn't you, Chrome.

_Chrome is offline_

\----------

     He exits the chatroom and scrolls through his contact list before pressing the call button. The phone rings once, when, “Izaya-san,” comes through, muffled by strong winds and booming laughter. The sound of motorcycle mufflers as they accelerate drapes over Li-Pei’s smooth childlike Taiwanese accent. Izaya clears his throat, "Ei-kun, I have a job for you." There’s a bell, and the gust of the breeze is the first one to disappear. “Wait a moment.” The mumbling gets stronger, but the engines of vehicles is only a soft background noise now. A few stray chuckles, a few shouted names, and it all dulls before hearing a door close, and then, there’s silence.

“Sorry about that, Izaya-san. I’m listening.”

"My job is simple. I need you to secretly refuse the mission provided by the Awakusu-Kai.”

"May I ask why?"

"Classified. I don't give information for free." His voice is believable enough, but the languid muscles in Izaya’s face protest to the forced well-known smirk he tries to emulate.

Ei laughs, “Understood. What are the details of this job?"

"You are to pretend you're still working for the Awakusu. Initiate first contact with Shizuo. Be mindful though, he will be accompanied by the daughter of the heir. I will send another biker gang to create a distraction for you, this way, Shizuo can leave with the girl, seemingly, undetected. I will provide payment for the treason.”

"You have a deal," is said with rushed determination.

"Don't let me down, Ei-kun."

"Of course not. My gang will be pleased to work for you again. We will always be available to assist you." 

"I'm glad to hear that."

     Izaya hangs up the call and lets the blanket fall from his back, caressing the junction between neck and shoulder. He forces his torso up with the strength of his legs pushing him against the force of gravity that threatens to pull him towards the rug. His movements are irregular, his swiftness slower than usual, but he heads up the two steps with no hesitation. Namie places the coffee mug next to his computer and goes to the sofa, slippers scuffing on the floor. She bumps into him, watching him stumble and grasp for balance with the back of the armless single. His jagged edges and sharp bones hurt when they dig into her muscles, but when she flinches, she makes a point to look away so he doesn’t take notice. Namie folds the throw blanket and walks back to her side of the desk. She hears the creak of the chair when he sits, hears the lifting of the mug from the surface, hears him blowing at the steam.

     Porcelain between lips, it tastes bitter, salty. Izaya can see Namie smirking in his peripheral vision and only because he’s more alert, only because he has regained an ounce of his cheeky nature, does he swallow it down to spite her. He’s careful, allowing not a single drop of distaste to present itself in his features, though he can feel his stomach recoiling from the absolute atrocity he drinks. He hums with false contentment, “Namie, this is delightful! You’ve clearly outdone yourself. Truly, I’ll have to promote you from secretary to barista.” He flails his arm in a dramatic gesture, to show just how much mock he means to say if the words themselves weren’t enough.

She scoffs, but she’s grateful for the banter. 

     Namie sips her coffee, the slurping sound making her cringe with self-disgust. Izaya’s dexterous fingers work at the keyboard and she places her cup down to continue updating the files with new information. It doesn’t take him long to find what he’s looking for, and it’s obvious by his pleased “aha!” He hides behind the monitor, away from her view, to drink the rest of the coffee, allowing the repulsion to show on his face. His eyes close on a strain, and he sticks out his tongue on a shiver of revulsion before turning his computer off and standing up. “I’m heading out,” and the statement startles her, causing a reflexive whip of her head in his direction, and in a disbelieving tone, she all but whispers, "out?" as if the very idea of Izaya anywhere except in the loft is unheard of, as if she doesn't spend more time in that apartment on a regular basis than him, yet this doesn't stop her from asking, "To Ikebukuro?” and her voice couldn’t possibly come out more incredulous if she tried. He can’t help but sigh with a “ _yes_ ,” that sounds equal parts exasperated and equal parts annoyed as he slips his arms through fur-trimmed sleeves and appreciates the feel of the material, the secure weight on his shoulders. His shoes are constricting, but the outside world awaits. With narrowed eyes and a sly smile, “Oh, by the way, I have emailed you instructions on a time and place where I will need you to pick something up for me.”

"Wh-"

She can hear his laughter careening through the cracks of the now closed door, and she grunts, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

\----------

      Ikebukuro hasn’t changed since he’s been absent; the people on the streets are still an unrecognizable gray mass, the glass windows are still unbreakable and immaculate; it’s all as loud, as dazzling as it was a month ago and he can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed. The vibrating aftershocks of his attack still rumble between his joints, and he holds his breath to stop the incoming hyperventilation by the mere thought of losing control with the sudden erratic throbbing in his sternum. His rhythmic wildfire strut gives nothing away, and he counts the sound of his heels on hot concrete ignoring the dizzying feeling in his head, the tunnel vision that comes and goes. He can’t collapse to a split cranium like some cornered animal, falling prey to the volatile mechanical heart of the city just so it can eat him up and chew him out.

     The wind whistles, the grass sways, and children laugh as they hang from still rings. They scream, intoxicated with happiness, throwing their arms up while being pushes down the yellow slide. He furrows his eyebrows; he doesn’t remember ever doing that as a kid. He scrunches up his nose as nausea settles on his stomach at the image of a mother eating a donut messily, the glaze sticking to the tip of her nose. The thought of food makes him ill, so he averts his head to see Kadota sitting not far from him, head tilted back, staring at the clear blue sky. Izaya walks his way and stands straight next to the bench, despite his spine opposing the position. “I’m sure that’s a dragon,” he laughs, “how are you, Izaya?” and he doesn’t miss a beat, “I’m doing great!” like lying about himself has always been second nature, an involuntary slip, “you?”

"Good, good. Why did you call me here?"

“Down to business, I see. I have a favor to ask."

"Shoot."

"I need you to contact your friend, Chikage Rokujo."

"Alright. What should I tell him?"

It takes a moment for Izaya to blink the abrupt blur.

"I…I have a job for him. I need Toramaru to serve as a distraction for Dragon Zombie. They don't have to worry about anything. They’re also working for me."

"I'll let him know."

"Give him my email and tell him to contact me so we can discuss details."

"Alright."

"Want a thank you kiss, Dotachin?"

Kadota chuckles, shaking his head. "That won’t be necessary.”

"It's your loss!"

     Izaya makes to leave when his vision flares black before coming back distorted. He’s almost sure, he hopes, the unrecognizable blur of shapes in front of him is Kadota. His first instinct is to desperately reach out for what he believes to be a shoulder and Kadota winces by the sudden force in which Izaya’s fingers dig into the hollow space between his bones, despite the many layers of clothing between their skins. He sways where he stands, and distantly he hears, “Izaya!” over the ringing in his ears. He tries to take a lungful but it’s like Earth is being stripped of all its oxygen, and Kadota watches with dread as the color in Izaya’s face drains. Izaya feels his hand being taken, his body being moved and his entire weight being pulled into someone else. He blinks a couple of times, naming the elements in the periodic table to calm himself enough to find Kadota’s eyes staring back at him with concern.

     “I’m alright Dotachin, I just,” he licks his lips, takes a deep breath, “I didn’t have breakfast,” and that’s not a lie, in fact, he can’t remember the last time he ate anything close to a sustainable meal. “Oh,” and Kadota buries his hand on the pocket of his jacket, taking out a dice caramel. He unwraps it and places it near the corner of Izaya’s mouth. Izaya blushes; he’s never encountered such kindness before, but Kadota doesn’t mention it, he only gestures for him to open his lips as if this was an everyday occurrence between them. It startles Izaya when a fleeting thought of, _are we friends?_ flashes by and his chest swells with something Izaya can’t place.

Eventually, he takes the caramel, chews, swallows, and he finds himself feeling better. “Thanks, Dotachin,” and his voice is softer than Kadota has ever heard it before, “I’ll be leaving now.”

“I can give you a ride home.”

“No, I’ll be fine.”

“Alight. Be careful, ok? Don’t scare me like that again.” Kadota chuckles.

Izaya nods waves him goodbye and leaves.

His chest still feels heavy, constricted, but it’s different; he likes it.

\----------

On his way back to Shinjuku, Izaya receives a call.

     Izaya tries to concentrate on the smell of leather instead of sandalwood cologne and Shiki’s sweat. He stares at the setting sun, the trees they pass, ignoring Shiki’s lust filled eyes and pleased grin reflected on the glass. He welcomes the cold that seeps into his open palm from the window as opposed to Shiki’s warm calloused hand holding him down by his nape. Shiki tugs at his fingers, opening the unhealed wounds on Izaya’s bandaged fingers, and he scrunches up his nose with the sting, the feel of blood soaking through. Shiki questions what he desires and Izaya lies through his teeth, “only you,” but it tastes like truth when he watches Shizuo walk out of Russia Sushi. Shiki catches on to the ease in which Izaya speaks deceit, but when he sees the blonde he knows the words are honest if they are not directed at him. Shiki thrusts into him with a type of viciousness Izaya hasn’t felt in a while, and he shuts his eyes, swallowing around the rust in his taste buds, working around the pain spiking up his tailbone.

     They take a sharp, fast turn, where Shiki's grip tightens on the bones in Izaya’s wrist, before shoving his arm away altogether and digging his nails on Izaya’s hip to keep him in place. Izaya whimpers with another harsh push into him, and when he opens his mouth, no sound comes out. He can feel panic pump inside of him with his heart’s every beat, stealing his voice away. When he pants, he’s almost sure his lungs are infected by consumption. He can feel his lids becoming heavy with fatigue, with the ache that runs through his body, and all he wants is to collapse, to fall asleep, for Shiki to find release. Shiki grunts and his pace becomes erratic and Izaya can only think, _finally_ , with the idea of getting off the limousine.

      Shiki comes and pulls out, pushing Izaya by the curve of his back, the force leaving Izaya to fall on the floor. Shiki can’t help the sadistic elated pleasure in his chest at seeing part of himself trickling out of Izaya. He wonders how everyone else would react to know one of the strongest man in Ikebukuro is brought down to his knees so easily. The most beautiful man he’s ever seen found underneath him; it’s too bad, Shiki thinks, he couldn’t get a taste of him the first time he laid eyes on a thirteen boy with the most enthralling eyes. Izaya is the most cunning, smart, manipulative bastard he knows, and yet his silver tongue can’t defend him when he’s reduced to this by his own touch-starved mind. Shiki draws his pants to his hips, closing the button, and tucking his shirt underneath the waistband. He reaches for a small cloth and dampens it with the melted ice the vodka bottle sits on. He kneels in front of Izaya and separates his legs, cleaning between Izaya’s pale thighs with tenderness, his fingers all but hovering on top of his skin. Izaya almost feels the need to replay the events in his head to be sure he didn’t imagine the aggressive mistreatment. Then again, he can see Shiki’s print on his wrist, can see the bandages coated in blood, can feel a pounding against his forehead.

Shiki leans back on the seat and lights a cigarette, looking out the window as the car comes to a stop. He blows smoke out of his mouth in Izaya’s direction and in a detached manner says, “Put your clothes on, we’re in front of your building.”

Izaya doesn’t blush, doesn’t object; he’s too numb to think, instead, he puts on his clothes in autopilot, and gets out of the limo without looking back, both sharing the silence. 

\----------

      Izaya’s hands shake as he grasps the handle, turning it upwards for hot water. The steam makes the world blurry, washes away his surroundings, gives his skin a red tint. He tilts his head back and tugs his hair out of his face, allowing the scalding water to drape over him, getting rid of Shiki’s filth. Izaya was fourteen when he met a man wearing gold who gifted him old books about legends of Greece, fairytales of bliss, and Celtic myths. Izaya was a moon stealing light from the sun, but Shiki was a magnificent eclipse, demanding admiration in the way he walked, talked, in the way he kissed. Izaya was fifteen when he unrolled himself when Shiki’s white suite came off. It took months for him to see Shiki again, to be able to ask, holding down tears, “Where were you? Where did you go?” and Shiki downplayed his emotions, distracting his brokenhearted focus with a warm bubble bath, champagne dripping down his tongue, and Shiki’s mouth on his cock.

     Izaya tried to forget who Shiki was to him, tried to let him go like a healthy person would, but there he was again, in his silk, in his limousines, with his money and fancy trips, with his smiling lips, his brown eyes behind half-lids, remembering Izaya why he stayed, why he couldn’t stop giving himself away. Every time Shiki touched him, he couldn’t help but feel guilty for thinking they didn’t fit, for believing he wasn’t first on Shiki’s list, for considering leaving him. Shiki told him not to grow his hair out, short brought out his boyish charms. Red, _it looks so good against your eyes._ Shiki said he didn’t believe in true love, he didn’t want a relationship, and months later he had a golden band on his left hand and a woman he called his wife. It changed nothing. Izaya was still a neglected toddler turned lover who didn’t grow up enough to stop searching for attention, validation, a man in his life that could remain present.

Izaya brings his hand over his mouth and his laughter bounces off the tiled walls.

By the time he turns the water off, they sound more like muffled sobs.

\----------

     He sits on his desk chair, legs crossed, drowning the ear-piercing silence by tapping the heel of his juddering foot on the floor. He caresses the frayed edges of paper with shaky fingers, changing his gaze from the words in the book to Shinjuku. The apartment is dark except for the cold blue glow that shines in through the panoramic window. He admires how the city lights allow for the night sky to remain bright. He wonders what Shizuo is doing now. Is he getting ready to work at the bar in that ridiculous uniform only he can pull off? Is he getting angry with his poor ability to prepare high-end whiskey on the rocks? Is he disquieting the establishment by yelling at senile drunks? He chuckles at the thought.

“Izaya onii-chan?” the voice is soft but loud in the deafening quietness.

He looks over his shoulder. “Yes, Akane-chan?”

“I can’t sleep.” She fidgets with her pink hoodie, eyes half-lidded.

     The corners of his lips soften and he closes the novel, letting it rest on the desk. When he walks, there’s no sound, and she stares; she’s never heard a man move like a phantom. He lies on the sofa like an elegant English man in those movies she’s seen, and he beckons her by patting the empty space next to him. She grins and sprints his way, lying half on top of his chest, hugging him, feeling his bandages under her fingers, but she doesn't ask. Izaya is to her the equivalent of a Japanese prince; there’s no other boy that compares to how kind, how pretty he is. Her hair reflects purple with the neon signs, and absentmindedly, he cards his fingers through it, causing her to close her eyes.

“Can I stay with you forever?”

“Only if I live long enough for forever.”

Intuitively, she tightens her hold on him.

“Does love conquer all?”

“Of course, but you will do well to believe otherwise.”

Izaya’s heart was raised to withstand pain, built to break, and when it bleeds, it’s because it’s meant to be. Shizuo might never give him a chance, might never know the truth of all he does, but if it hurts when Shizuo smiles at someone else, he understands, it’s all as it should.

It’s the way he learned love works.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The nine circles of hell" is a reference to Dante's "Inferno".
> 
> Valerian tea has sedative properties and people have used it for sleep and anxiety. 
> 
> I tagged pedophilia because Shiki was much older than Izaya when he was thirteen, and, at least in the United States, to be diagnosed with pedophilia you have to be sixteen or older and lust over children thirteen or younger.
> 
> On the same note, that Daddy Issue tag really makes more sense now, doesn't it? 
> 
> I know Shizuo and Izaya haven't even been in the same room and we're already heading to the fourth chapter. I promise it will happen soon, but when I tagged slow burn, I meant it, haha. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Thank you for the support and patience!
> 
> I'm curious, where are my readers from?!  
>  I live in the United States, but I'm from Puerto Rico.
> 
> Tell me what you think! Comments and reviews are the food of writers!  
>  -3B


	4. Xylem Vessel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shizuo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xylem Vessel: A tissue that conducts water throughout the plant.

It’s four in the morning and Shizuo lies on the futon wide awake.

     He doesn’t need a blaring alarm clock when his body nurtures the pattern of an early bird regardless of how much he protests the notion. A weak breeze seeps through the open window swaying the thin baby blue curtains over his forehead. His face is blank, lips slack, body sprawled, but he takes a deep breath and a crease takes perch between his brows. The yellow sunlight is red behind closed lids and he buries his nose in the crook of his inner elbow, shielding his eyes with darkness. His breathing is smooth, his muscles are still, and the lack of energy threatens to pull him under, slurring his thoughts, but it never does. He can’t chase away awareness once it reaches him and he huffs, irritation stronger than his physical strength has ever been. With the persuasion of dog days, his skin becomes heated under the shirt that sticks to his chest, soft cotton feeling like a metal sponge scraping raw at his nerve endings. Exasperated, he heaves a long sigh, letting his arm drop on top of his stomach.

     Shizuo’s eyes are lustrous with the weight of exhaustion, staring idly at the particles that float inside the golden glow that reflects off the high of his cheekbones. His mind is empty as his hand hovers over his exposed abdomen and there’s nothing primal in the act when he slides his fingers under the hem of his boxers. His hold is lazy, weak, and his speed is indolent. The flick of his wrist is lethargic and when he swipes a thumb atop a dry slit, it stings more than it helps. Inside his ribs, his heart doesn’t beat any faster, and in his mouth, there are no choked gasps, but in the back of his throat, there’s an aggravated groan. The sheets hug at his legs as if scratching to reach the white of his bones and the collar of his shirt applies pressure down on his neck as if to suffocate him. He stares at himself inside the television screen before unwrapping his fingers from his flaccid penis and he snorts; it's not the first time he’s tried masturbating to tire himself out with no success.

He swings his legs off the futon, pushes himself up, and walks into the bathroom.

     Shizuo ruffles his hair and exhales, staring at the brown roots that have started to show underneath the bleach blond. Mechanically, he squeezes a dollop of mint paste on the frayed bristles of his brush and brings it up to his tongue. Beads of sweat drop from his temples down the center of his sternum. He shifts his gaze towards his face and his eyes fill with dissatisfaction, the black of his pupils judging him as if he was a wild animal in need of being tamed against the shortcomings of his life. He grunts, eyebrows coming together, absentmindedly brushing his teeth until there’s blue and red when he spits. He takes his eyes off himself, rinses his mouth and turns his back on the mirror. He peels his boxers off and throws them into the corner basket. He turns the bathtub’s single lever upwards, feels for the temperature, pulls on the diverter, and climbs into the tub. Each year is an added weigh that piles on his shoulders making it easier to sink into a self-deprecating routine but the lukewarm water pours down in between his shoulder blades, soothing the corners of his lips into neutrality as opposed to a frown. He tries to close his eyes but they open on their own volition and so, from where he sits, he admires the blue that has started to show in the sky.

He always leaves the bathroom door open; it makes him feel less claustrophobic, less lonely too.

     Thirty minutes later, Shizuo stares at his fingertips as they resemble dried-up prunes. His limbs begin to tremble against the cool water and he stands out of the tub pulling the stopper with him. He watches, listens, for a few heartbeats, as the water swirls down the drain. He leaves the bathroom, towel just under his hipbones. Cold droplets fall from his hair down the small of his back and the air that caresses his skin causes goosebumps to erupt, traveling from his abdomen up to his chest, settling on his nape. He walks towards the window tying back the curtain, allowing the light to catch every hidden corner of his tiny apartment. He takes the carton from under the pillow and extracts a cigarette to place between a set of chapped lips. He inhales as the flames touch the end of the butt, dropping the lighter on the blue sheets. He breathes out smoke from his lungs but there’s nothing hot, nothing comforting about the warmth he blows out of his body. Elbow on the windowsill, chin on an open palm, and he knows there’s beauty in the world but he can’t see it, not behind the fog that clouds his vision. 

     The alley is dark and filthy; it smells like rotten rats and waste no one ever wants to keep but the scent of frosting and chocolate floats in the air from the adjacent building. He can see inside the neighbor’s apartment where the tenant, a woman in her late thirties, stands in her purple brassiere using the kitchen faucet to dampen her hair. She turns her head his way and stares at him, eyes widening in false abashment, a poor excuse of a nervous smile as the impish tilt in the corners all but gives her away. She walks towards the window with a jump to her step that accentuates the bounce of her breasts and she leans her torso out the ledge, the lace becoming noticeable now. She waves at him and he opens his hand in her overall direction as a small type of acknowledgment that counts as disinterest at most, and he turns around by the knocking on his door.

She doesn’t know that he catches her rejected pout and when his back is to her, he can no longer hold his laughter.

     Shizuo presses play and the first movie ‘Hanejima Yuuhei’ started in, begins. He lowers the volume to a low mumble that serves as mere background noise. He would never say it out loud, much less to Kasuka, but the movie is shit, his brother’s acting is passable at best, the production is low in value, and the script is a cliché mess of plot holes. Shizuo hides the blanket and pillow inside a gray ottoman and converts the mattress back into a sofa. He pulls the coffee table from the wall to the center, in between the futon and television set, by plastic wheels that screech with the uneven flooring. The tune of the microwave is louder than the monologue Kasuka’s character works on but under his breath, Shizuo mutters most of the words by memory. He walks to the kitchen, bumping shoulder to shoulder, and takes out his instant ramen meal. He uses his chopsticks to stir the soup and he inhales the food more than he chews it, shoving a mouthful of noodles past his lips. 

A too well known insufferable voice speaks, “That’s not a very healthy habit, you know! It’s best to eat moderately and slowly, though, I suppose I can’t really apply proper biology to you anyway! Ah! In fact, all you eat might be why you have so much lean muscle to start, other than the vending machine throwing, of course!"

His eyebrows twitch. “I swear to god-”

     “Say…” and it’s easy to detect the mirth in Shinra’s tone, an all-knowing glint in his eyes. “Why don’t you cut him out? I thought you hated him,” and he looks at Shizuo now, a mocking quality to his lower crooked teeth that cut through Shizuo’s neck. It’s not the first nor the last time Shizuo will not respond. Shinra turns his neck, “It’s a nice picture! It was taken two days before graduation, correct? I’m sure of it!” and he chuckles, “Those were the last days of our childhood, not that it mattered, none of us had any innocence left by then. I think, Orihara-kun, least of all.” He sighs with a gentle smile, a softness to his irises that is startling to see on his face. “Were you trying to replicate the feeling museums go for when they put a work of art in a bulky, intricate golden frame? Truly, how poetic, Shizuo.”

“Fuck off.”

“Is there a reason why you keep this?”

“No.”

“Sure," he sing-songs. "If you think I’m stupid, I won’t stop you.”

Around a full mouth of food, Shizuo grumbles, “Why are you here?”

“You are no fun, Shizuo!" He flails his arms, glasses slipping down his nose. "Tell me, have you decided what to do about Orihara-kun? Have you chosen to follow him around? You don’t have to, but tell me!”

“Stop pestering me about the flea.”

“I haven’t heard any flying stop signs these days.”

“I haven’t seen ‘em.”

Shinra frowns. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, now get the hell out of my house.”

“Studio apartment.”

“I don’t have to answer to you, you fucking smart-mouthed asshole.”

Shinra laughs like he always does; loud and fake if it wasn’t genuine.

     “Of course! I wouldn’t want to interrupt your intimate moment with noodles in a cup! Good luck killing Orihara-kun!” He opens the front door and over his shoulder, he sneers, something almost ugly on Shinra. “That is what you decided on, right?” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and smirks. “Bye-bye, Shizu-chan,” and the nickname is said with a lilt that resembles a purr. The door closes and Shinra's giggles can be heard behind it, slowly becoming a distant sound until it all but disappears. Shizuo exhales, putting the chopsticks on the counter, and stealing a glance at the picture as if he wasn’t alone. Without Izaya the picture wouldn’t be authentic and he can’t even pretend he wants to rip him out; it never crossed his mind.

It’s Izaya’s smile in the picture, more than anything, and the crease between his eyebrows smooths over. 

     He drinks the beef flavored broth though it tastes like sand and when he gulps fruit punch he swears there’s nothing but blood in the cup. He drapes the towel on the edge of the window and pulls up his boxers over the hollow of his hips. He drops a lighter and a few cigarettes inside the breast pocket of his plain white t-shirt. He catches a glimpse of his brother and his eyes harden, lips pressing together before his face mirrors the same impassiveness on Kasuka’s and he turns the television off. He slips his shoes on and puts his wallet in one of the pockets of his worn-out sweatpants. Puff pastry in hand, he heads down the three flights of stairs.

     In front of his building, on the sidewalk, the neighbor makes to sprint the five feet of distance between them. Shizuo can’t help but notice the chipped purple on her bitten nails as she holds a spliff between fingertips. “Hello there, handsome! May I have a light?” There’s red lipstick on her chin, teeth too. He presents her with a flame and she leans in, wrapping her hands around his wrist and he almost visibly cringes with the feel of her clammy skin against his. She exhales and the smell of marijuana makes the tip of his nose scrunch.

“Thanks, honey. Say, what’s your name?”

“Shizuo.”

“Oh, like the monster?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you him?”

“Yeah.”

     “Isn’t your name supposed to mean calm or some shit like that?” She inhales, hollowing her cheeks while he grunts in response. “Not much of a talker?” She laughs, heavy black lined eyes disappearing. “S’alright, we don’t have to talk, sweetheart. Come up to my place for a good time and show me what those muscles of yours are good for, hm?” He eats the last of the pastry and he’s thankful he can taste the sugar. “Whad’ya say?” She looks to the side, eyeing another man, and before she can look back towards Shizuo, he jogs across the street when the pedestrian light is still red, traffic heavy with the morning buzz. Through the hunks, he can hear her shouting, hilarity clear in her voice.

“Wait! Baby! Don’t be that way! I want to know! How does the fortissimo of Ikebukuro fuck?!”

\----------

     It’s nine in the morning and neon lights are in competition with the sun, blinding inside his pupils. The loud noise is deafening in the drums of his ears. The polluted air is hypersonic with the sensation of blood rushing out of his nose. The taste of mass-produced food is tar on his taste buds. The slight caress of skin between him and those who walk too close, too cramped, is anger pulsating in his temples. His rage is a product of all the years he’s spent unconsciously feeding on the most deprived parts of the people that surround him. It’s their morbid excitement that has fueled his parasitic, flea-like, search for threads of false validation.

He catches a trace of matted olive green in his peripheral vision. It stands out next to the gloss of black and white cars that speed by. He recognizes the purr of the engine, appreciates the teal jacket that brings the gray of Kadota’s eyes.

“Yo, how are you? S‘been a while.”

“Good, you?”

Kadota shrugs. “The usual.”

Shizuo scratches the back of his neck. “Can I talk to you?” He looks at the sliding door, “just you; if it’s alright.”

“Hop on. We’ll go to Russian Sushi.” Erika opens the door, a beaming smile on her face.

It’s the middle of August but he swears the smell of cherry blossoms is in the air. _Is it-_ “C’mon, Shizu-Shizu! What are you waiting for?!” He blinks out of his daze enough to climb in the van. Walker’s laughter rings but it’s dull against the smell of anise that lingers inside Shizuo’s lungs.

Kadota and Izaya lock eyes before Izaya’s figure disappears behind the rooftop and Kadota’s phone buzzes.

_Take care of Shizu-chan for me._

     Shizuo listens as the two geeks talk animatedly over some new manga he doesn’t know anything about when Erika places her head on his shoulder with unknown familiarity and Walker follows, resting his nape on Shizuo’s shin casually. For a moment, he startles at the physical contact, the trust, but the initial surprise eases into a smile. The drive doesn’t take long, ten minutes at most, when the dazzling golden dome of Russia Sushi comes into view. Walker opens the door and Shizuo steps on the sidewalk, the air tousling his hair as the van moves back into traffic. He turns around, walking in long strides to enter Russia Sushi, the bell ringing with his arrival. He rakes his eyes over the restaurant to see Kadota already sitting in a private booth in the back.

“Manager Kadota! What you want?”

“I’ll have the special of the day. Shizuo?”

“Ah! Shi-zu-o! I see no fighting! No fighting good!”

“Yeah, good,” He chuckles. “Um, I’ll have the honey shrimp sushi.”

“Good, good. Be back!” and Simon walks away.

     Kadota holds a cup between his hands and blows at the steam. “So,” and he takes a sip of his hot tea, grimacing at the burn. "what do you want to talk about?” At that Shizuo sighs, looking around the establishment. There’s only them and a couple of high schoolers by the front window. _Funny_ , one of them has bleached hair like him, and he swears, if it wasn’t for the blue eyes, the other kid would be the spitting image of Izaya when he was sixteen. He averts his gaze back to the table, combs his hair with his fingers and bites the plastic straw, distorting his voice a little when he says, “Izaya.” Kadota raises an eyebrow, putting the teacup down, the sound muted by the kids’ laughter. “What do you want me to tell you?”

Shizuo exhales. “Something, anything.”

“What’s this about? I need to know or I won’t know what to tell you.”

Shizuo looks back at the kids. “They kinda look like me and Izaya.” Kadota peers over his shoulder and hums. “Yeah, they do.” Shizuo drinks half his iced tea in one gulp. “I think I might want that. At the least, a truce.”

Kadota all but smirks. “You picked quite a topic. Iz-”

“Sushi good!” Simon walks to the table with their order, giving Shizuo thumbs up and leaving the restaurant altogether, spreading flyers outside, his voice a background noise.

“Izaya doesn’t lie.”

“What?”

“Izaya doesn’t lie, not unless is about himself. He may withhold information, he may deflate, he may answer with a question, but it’s very rare to hear him outright lie.” Shizuo stares as if he had never expected this and Kadota chuckles. “The more you know, right?”

“What else?” and Shizuo starts eating his sushi rolls, dipping them in honey.

“Do you blame Izaya for ruining people’s lives?”

“I…don’t know. Can I?” Shizuo laughs and Kadota smiles lightly.

“He’s not as bad as he’s made out to be. I know of people who’ve followed his earnest advice and are making an honorable living as successful CEOs of the tallest buildings in this city; no schemes and no bullshit.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. You remember Mikage Sharaku?”

Shizuo scrunches up his eyebrows, “yeah, I think.” He waves his chopsticks in the air. “Isn’t she the tomboy that hung around Izaya for some time in high school?”

“The one.”

“What about her?”

Kadota takes a sip of his drink. “I was present when she tried to kill herself.” Shizuo widens his eyes, jaw going slack. “She didn't know I was there and before I realized what she was about to do, Izaya came rushing in. He talked her out of it and held on to her, letting her cry on his shoulder. He promised to help and she asked for advice.”

"Advice?"

"Yeah. Izaya told her to drop out of high school."

“Oh. So, that’s why she left.”

“It all worked out in the end. She got her life together and became a martial arts teacher.” Kadota snaps his fingers. “In fact, she’s the one that teaches self-defense to Izaya’s sisters. There are more stories like hers but you’ll never hear about those around this city.”

“I didn’t know.” Shizuo drops an entire sushi roll in his mouth, but it tastes a little like dirt.

Kadota sighs. “You-You can’t buy Izaya’s loyalty, he has money to spare and you can’t pretend you would die nor kill for him, he can pay for those services too. He will never be anything for you unless you give him something worthy of his trust. If you can remember his favorite food, the books he’s read twice, that’s important, that means something to him.”

“Thank you, Kadota, really.”

Mouth full, Kadota responds, “No problem.”

“Anyway, I have to get going.”

“Alright.”

Shizuo places the straw between teeth and drinks the last of his tea until the sound of his inhale around the ice echoes in the empty restaurant.

“I think…Izaya wouldn’t mind being your friend.”

“You think?” and Shizuo sounds so hopeful that Kadota can’t help the tilt of his lips. _It was about time, Shizuo._  

“Yeah” and Kadota sounds certain, eyes determined. 

Shizuo decides to pay for their meal at the front and leaves realizing mid walk towards his apartment that seventeen days have come and gone without Izaya and in the middle of the concrete, while the people miss the thirst of a tiger and the venom of a snake; he misses not being alone.

\----------

Shizuo wasn’t expecting any visitors.

     His black vest is covered in beige fur the color of dusk. There’s a meow, soft and high pitched, nothing short of adorable but it only causes Shizuo’s forehead to furrow in annoyance. He wants to swear he despises Yuigadokusomaru but hate is too much of a strong word for the small creature that lies purring on top of his newly lightened roots. He wants to reach out and pet ‘Doku’ and it must show on his face because Kasuka’s low and monotone voice drones “he won’t bite,” as if Shizuo didn’t know, and he scoffs, “that’s not it.” Doku jumps from Shizuo’s head down to his shoulder and lands on the floor on all fours staring up at Shizuo with something akin to adoration swimming in its golden eyes. Shizuo feels a pang in his chest, tears contained inside of his waterline. “You have to let it go. Brother-” Shizuo’s teeth clink together as he bites into a caviar filled rice ball Kasuka brought with more force than it's worth. “It doesn’t matter,” but it does, because Shizuo was an innocent twelve-year-old kid when he hugged a stray cat too tight. He can still hear the snap of bones echoing in a corner of his mind.

“Are you going to take medication?” and he averts his eyes to the wall of pictures oblivious to Shizuo glowering behind his back.

Voice stifled by the food, “For what? I don’t want to be a zombie or some shit like that.”

“How do you know that will happen?”

“I don’t.”

“Think about it. It’s worth the try."

"Whatever."

Kasuka cradles Yuigadokusomaru to his chest. "Still working?" Shizuo nods. "I'm proud," and somehow that makes it worse because it implies that Kasuka expected him to fail. Shizuo mumbles a halfhearted "thanks," and this time one of Kasuka's eyebrows raises against Shizuo's uncontained glare.

"I must leave now.”

Shizuo grunts.

“See you soon.” Kasuka leaves the apartment, the door silent as it falls back on its frame.

“Bye.”

Shizuo loves his brother, adores him even, but resentment coils around his intestines, threatening to eat the love away.

Shizuo drinks a glass of milk to wash the food down but it tastes like salt water.

\----------

     The palms of Akane’s hands are pressed against the glass next to her button nose. Inside of the café, Shizuo sits eating the last of his pudding, spine curved to avoid spillage on his white dress shirt. Tom, who stands near him, clears his throat, causing Shizuo to look up from his sunglasses, an eyebrow raised in silent questioning. He follows Tom’s pointer finger to Akane as she glances between Shizuo and a piece of paper. Her brown eyes settle on him and a wide grin breaks across her face. She outstretches her arms and twirls in place, humming something Shizuo can’t hear over the glass that separates them. He finishes his dessert, drinks the last gulp of his milkshake, and Akane tilts her head to the side, black hair glowing purple under the sunlight, motioning him to come outside.

“Who is she?”

“I don’t know. I’ll go check it out.”

Laced in amusement, Tom asks, “What will you do if she calls you daddy or darling?”

Shizuo scowls. “Not happening.”

He stands, placing the food tray on top of the trash cabinet with a quiet thud, and leaves, the bell ringing over his head. She swings by the balls of her feet, the red ribbon around her collar bouncing in place.

“Who-”

“Heiwajima Shizuo, yes?” and she presents him with a photograph of himself.

“Yeah.”

“Shizuo Onii-chan, let’s go to the park!” and she takes hold of his hand.

“W-what?!”

“C’mon! C’mon! Let’s go!”

“Wait, I don't even know your name."

“Akane.”

“And why, Akane-chan, are we going to the park?”

“Onii-chan told me to take you there.”

“What’s his name?”

She giggles. “I can’t tell you that, silly.”

Shizuo can smell anise and Sakura blossoms on Akane; can smell Izaya in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, alive and updating! 
> 
> Alright, let's begin:
> 
> -I mentioned that the woman was holding a spliff. A spliff contains tobacco and marijuana inside.  
> -Doku: Japanese for Toxic/Poison.  
> -Shizuo is always eating, isn't he?  
> -I edited this chapter so many times it's not even funny.  
> Tell me what you think! I'm all for the comments!  
> -3B


	5. Stem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izaya.

Near the park, on the fifth floor of an abandoned building, Izaya watches over the crowd.

    The screen of his cellphone shines bright against the black of Li-pei’s _alright_ in answer to his _now_. He can hear the rumbling of motorcycle engines approaching with each second that moves by him. The intensity of the sun is dimmed and the blue of the sky is imperceptible behind the clouds that catch as silver on his sclera. The chill of the air that ruffles his hair eases the flush on his cheeks, the heat boiling underneath his skin. His legs shake and his thighs throb but he stops relying on his own lack of strength to lean his weight on the window sill, easing the pressure on his molars. His headache is a mild thrum that keeps him awake despite the insomnia that has developed but he’s adapted to it as to barely feel the pain even when on the verge of a debilitating migraine. Today is a good day, however, because his vision is not tunneling or blurred but clear in a way it hasn’t been for weeks. His heart isn’t fighting through tachycardia, instead, it has a strong beat that is in syncope with his breathing. Every so often, he registers an almost fainting feeling but he’s had it since starting on his medication so it has become a normalized condition that he’s learned to maneuver around as opposed to a sudden symptom of inconvenience.

     In a monochromatic city, it is Shizuo’s hair that comes into focus like an orbiting sun into Izaya’s field of sight first. His eyes crinkle at the corners and a closed mouth smile rushes to his face. Shizuo demands attention when he's in a bartender uniform next to dirty t-shirt wearing mothers next to rusty still rings. He towers over every other man and if his reputation wasn’t enough, his handsome face alone makes everyone double take. There’s a reason why he was approached by a talent scout first as opposed to his brother. Akane holds on tight to Shizuo’s hand, looking up at him with teeth showing under the wide of her lips. Izaya hopes no one ever takes her smile for granted; hopes she holds on to her childhood a little longer than he never did. The muscles of his shoulders are rigid but he loads a gun that is all sorts of light and heavy on his gloved hands. He spins the silencer in place and pulls on the slide with bandaged fingers. When he lets go, the sound reverberates in the empty space like a shot fired in on itself. Izaya sends _it’s_ _time_ to Chikage and points the gun at the crowd as a member of Dragon Zombie throws a glass bottle a few centimeters away from Shizuo’s temple.

From an alley, a few streets down, Toramaru start their engines and make it to the park in less than a minute.

     Chaos is a mixture of confusion and disorganization that swirls in the brown of Shizuo’s narrowed eyes. He looks down at Akane, letting her hand go, brows furrowed in questioning, but she gives nothing away with her believable wide eyes and dropped jawline. In the outskirts of the controlled commotion, Nakura laughs, shrill and fervent, a poor tasteless imitation of Izaya’s mania. Fur-trimmed collar up and gold earrings flickering in the light, he calls the attention of men in black. He runs into backstreets and narrow lanes at a slow enough pace so the suits can keep track and Nakura goads them away from the playground. Izaya points the gun at the limousine with tinted windows that follows by the main road and sees Shiki’s bloody face on his mind but he lets him live despite himself. He averts his attention to Mikage, who stands sufficiently close to see with precision where spit and sweat drops. She takes out her cellphone, opens the camera, and presses record. 

     Another member of Dragon Zombie threatens to taser Akane and inside of Shizuo’s veins a raging bull that can see the red of his own scalding blood awakens. He takes off his sunglasses with a flick of the wrist and his nose scrunches up in anger. He tightens his fists to fight but before he can run into action, Akane screams, high-pitched and panicked, “Shizuo onii-chan!” He whips his head, craning his neck to look behind himself. Akane squirms in Li-pei’s thin arms, feet hovering over the ground, and the lines around his mouth show something ingenious and mischievous. Shizuo’s rage dispels into protectiveness and his strength dulls when he reaches for Akane and her fragile bones. In his horror, Shizuo doesn’t notice the way in which Li-pei all but gives her away, not much of a struggle kept in his hold. Akane’s waterline glitters and her lower lip trembles. She wraps her legs around Shizuo’s waist as she grips him by the nape. She hides her face in the crook of his neck and Izaya chuckles from where he stands; Akane is a marvelous actress.

     Chikage comes forward, finger pointed at Li-pei. “That is no way to treat one of the female persuasion, Dragon Zombie.” His voice raised over the murmur of the multitude in order to be heard. “Oh?” and a distinctive childlike shine comes through the whites of Li-pei’s eyes. “Is that right?” He lets his weight fall on one leg, hip jutting out. “Yes. I know I shouldn’t meddle in things that aren’t my business but when it comes to a woman I must defend her honor! I despise to see them cry and I especially loathe those who make them cry.” A corner of Li-pei’s mouth raises, “And you are?” He takes out his Chinese scimitars, juggling them with practice effortlessness. “Chikage Rokujou,” he tilts his fedora down, “leader of Toramaru,” and he doesn’t hesitate to show off his kubutowari. “Li-pei Ei, leader of Dragon Zombie, though you already knew.” He shrugs. “Let’s settle this, yeah?”

     Shizuo slowly retreats to Akane’s whispered, “Shizuo onii-chan, I want to go,” and Izaya watches as his white king moves as he should like he needs him to. He tucks the gun inside a pocket on the inside of his jacket and sends a quick _disperse_ to the gang leaders. He receives the recording from Mikage and he dials a new number he's acquired. The line rings and he can hear the engines disappearing as the gangs settle their false score in a race. Izaya makes his way to descend from the five flights of stairs when “Hello?” comes through the speaker of his phone. “Mikiya Awakusu. I would advise you to find validation somewhere else instead of trying to butt heads with Heiwajima Shizuo.” The response is almost instantaneous, graceless and gaudy, “the hell is this?” Izaya’s voice turns an octave lower. “I have information concerning your desire to gain a reputation amongst your men by destroying Heiwajima’s life, too bad it would look rather distasteful of you and the bar if he’s fired after saving a little girl from some random biker gang attack.” His tone reaches for a mild playful lilt. “Say, where is your daughter, Mikiya?”

“W-what?!"

“Awakusu Akane, right? She’s rather young. It would be horrible if she got hurt, no? She has so much life left to live. Don’t you think?”

“Where is she?! Don’t fuc-"

“I’ve sent an attachment. There, you will see the man you sought to subdue saving your daughter.” There’s silence before Izaya can hear Mikiya playing the video. “Listen here. I’m a patient man but not patient enough. Retreat now. Understood?”

“Y-yes.”

“Text the number under the attachment. They can bring your daughter whenever, wherever, and to whomever. They will be happy to do business with you. Have a lovely day!”

     Izaya hangs up the burner phone and throws it against the wall, the black pieces scattering, and it’s like a switch has been turned off. His knees buckle from under him as if the last of what he had to give has finally been taken from him. His tailbone hits the concrete and his knuckles turn white as he holds on to the railing, tension grappling at his fingertips. His heart hits his sternum erratically and his blown up wide eyes stare down at the flight of stairs below him. There’s a sense of relief, of adrenaline, and Izaya’s laughter rings loud, echoing in the acoustics of the empty building. Dust hovers inside the silver light that filtrates through the small narrow windows, high-up the walls. He tilts his head back, resting his nape on the edge of a step, cold penetrating his pours, cranium first.

“Izaya? You here?”

     “Yeah,” and his voice is husky as he tries to get up but his bones have turned to gelatin and his legs feel heavy as lead. He closes his eyes, takes a deep shuttering inhale, and his body thrums from the inside out. He can hear her boots approaching before, "Izaya, what the hell! Are you alright?" He hums, the most he's capable of. "Don't fucking bullshit me you piece of shit!" Izaya chuckles, though it sounds more like a wheeze. Mikage sighs full of resignation. "Ok, alright, whatever. Let's get you up then." She kneels next to him and grasps at his forearm, working to pull him towards herself. She knows not to push Izaya, she knows when he won't say anything at all. She ignores the pang in her chest as he stumbles a few times to get to his feet even with her taking most of his weight, but instead, she scowls her way through the worry and changes topic altogether, looking past the current situation per his silent request. "Nakura texted me. The situation is under control. The Awakusu-kai let him go when they found out it wasn't you and Kadota paid Toramaru in advance, so that's dealt with."

"Good, good. Did Shizu-chan follow the plan?"

     "Yes. He left in the direction of Shinra's, so I assume, that's where he's at with the girl. It's not like you didn't choose a place close enough to that asshole friend of yours." He finally stands and she puts pressure on his shoulder to keep him balanced, pushing his back to meet the wall. "Truly, you're such a manipulative bastard." He brings a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Am not! It just so happens that this park is close to Shinra." He shrugs and there’s only the sound of their breathing and birds chirping before, tone sincere, “Thank you, Mikage.” She looks up with dimmed stars in her eyes. "Anything for you. You know that." She brings her hands to the tips of his hair and he smiles at her, sad and bittersweet. "Well, my job here is done." She straightens and pulls back. "I'll be leaving now. You're ok, right?" He waves at her, brushing off her worry as an unnecessary fuss. "I'll be just fine, Mikage." She raises her eyebrow skeptically and sighs. She mutters an irritated, "whatever," and walks away. 

Izaya lights up a cigarette, places it between lips and exhales, watching the smoke interact with the particles dancing in the light.

It's a few minutes before his fingers stop trembling and he's able to leave the building.

     The park is strangely deserted in comparison to a few minutes ago when there was so much tumult. Everyone has scattered and dispersed as if there was no one there, to begin with. His fingers skim the metal fence and Izaya can feel years of nostalgia pressuring down on his shoulders with moments that didn’t quite occur; things he never had and people that can be replaced. Ikebukuro is a ghost he can’t let go off. It holds on to his throat like a loose gold necklace, a tight leather leach, a sharp guillotine. Izaya is surrounded by a waste of space empty of anything substantial. It’s in the air, dense and humid; in the smoke, a killer for asthmatic kids and cancerous for everyone else. It’s in the monotone technology that depresses the corneas and the idle weather discussions no one cares about. Under his shoes, the concrete is rough and callous with blackened gum stuck in the corners. His soles scuff with his ambling in the direction of Shinra’s.

Izaya hasn’t seen him since he brought regulating pills with a slice of lemon cake on the side, though Izaya has told him countless times he doesn’t like the flavor of citrus.

 

\----------

      Akane slurps around an ice pop as Shinra pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, directing his next words to Shizuo. “Ok, let me get this straight.” He pushes the frame of his glasses up and cards his hand through his hair. “You’ve kidnapped a child.” Shizuo chokes on his own breath, coughing up grains of rice. “W-what?! No!” Shinra points at Akane nonchalantly. “Then what is that and why is it here? I think, correct me if I’m wrong here, but I think that’s a girl and I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’s not yours.” Shizuo gulps audibly, sipping down tea to soothe his scratched throat. Celty enters the living room with a tray full of an array of pastries and she all but shoves her PDA in Shizuo’s face as she asks, [Do you want lemon cake?] He scrunches up his nose, furrows his eyebrows, and his lips tilt down at the corners. “No, gross. Who the fuck eats lemon cake?” He takes a bite of his udon noodles, missing the drop of Celty’s shoulders. Shinra leans his spine on the sofa’s cushion with a grin set in place. “Go on,” and he makes a motion with his hand as if to rush Shizuo into it but Shizuo, with his food-filled cheeks, stares back with an unimpressed look in his eyes. To spite Shinra, who grows increasingly impatient and therefore manic in his jerk-like movements, he takes much longer than necessary in finishing his dinner, watching the faint twitch in Shinra’s lower lash line with something akin to prideful glee blossoming in his chest.

     Shizuo ends his meal, sips some more tea, cleans around his mouth with a napkin and takes a cigarette out, in the middle of the living room, despite Shinra’s previous objections. It is all done with deliberate patience that seems aristocratic in a similar way that Akane classifies Izaya. “She came to me when I was working and we went to the park-” Celty, over-excitable as she is, interrupts. [Why were you going to the park with her?] The brightness of her PDA makes Shizuo wince but he resumes, otherwise, unbothered. “There, this biker gang shit thing happened. They threatened her, I saved her, and we’re here.” Shinra adds lemon extract to his tea before swishing it around his mouth in a disgusting display that has Akane crumpling her mouth, ice pop forgotten, as it melts down her fingers. Shinra smiles wide. “I understand. You kidnapped her.”

“What the fuck! That-What-You-I just-The fuck?”

Akane giggles. “I can see why onii-chan likes you!”

Shizuo snaps his fingers. “Oh yeah! We went to the park because she said this onii-chan of hers told her to take us.”

“Is that right?” Shinra asks, curious.

[Who is onii-chan?”]

      The front door swings open and Izaya saunters into the apartment as if it was his own. Perfect teeth, flawless posture, sharp collarbones, and sunken cheeks. There’s flamboyance intertwined around his fingers and light vaults from his silver rings, passing through the burgundy of his eyes as he catches a glimpse of Shizuo. The words die in Shizuo’s throat as he gawks at the informant with an open mouth, heart picking up speed. The image painted in front of him is an indulgence and a surprise wrapped in one but next to him Shinra sighs in annoyance at the sight and asks, though he already knows, “did you just pick my lock?” Izaya raises an eyebrow with a smirk and rocks a small leather case with a pick set in his hand before slipping it into his pocket. “Izaya-onii-chan!” Akane bites the last of her ice pop in a rush and her face contorts in an effort to ease the sudden brain freeze but the sting doesn’t deter her from swallowing the cold treat and running to him with outstretched hands. He wastes no time in moving a few steps forward and picking her up, an arm under her butt to keep her in place as she wraps her legs around his waist and tangles her fingers in his hair. “How are you?” and he swipes the bangs away from her eyes before she nuzzles her cheek on his. “I’m alright, just like you said! Shizuo onii-chan is a bad-mouthed teddy bear!” He laughs, head tilting back. “I told you, didn’t I?” and she nods eagerly.

     Shizuo stares at the scene unfolding in front of his eyes unmoving, much like Celty herself, but Shinra simply crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Did you plan this, Orihara-kun?” There’s a beat, light speed, where Shinra feels his heart skip at the sharp-edged look Izaya gives. “Hm? Plan? What in the world are you babbling about this time?” Shinra doesn’t miss the way Akane picks up on Izaya’s intonation and frowns at him as if Shinra personally took her pacifier away when she was a toddler. Distantly, he wonders about their relationship but he doesn’t care enough to delve into it for long and so, he ignores it, how he ignores everything that isn’t Celty. “You did.” It’s not a question and in a clipped tone Izaya mutters, “whatever, Shinra,” with a dismissive wave of his hand. The informant changes his gaze to Shizuo with a smile, a little closer to what Shizuo has hanging in his apartment, on his lips; in his eyes. “Shizu-chan, I do apologize for the trouble, but it had to be done. I hope you understand.” Izaya takes no offense; he knows Shizuo isn’t angry or irritated when he asks, “what the hell do you mean?” He’s genuinely confused, despite how the words sound when they form in his vocal chords.

“Izaya onii-chan didn’t make daddy fire you because he has proof that you saved me to tell daddy so he can’t touch you!” Shizuo’s eyes widen and he looks to Izaya waiting for a sign that he either accepts or negates the claim.

Shinra sips his tea before, “Akane-chan, what’s your last name?” Izaya opens his mouth to deflate but Akane beats him to it, loud and clear, “Awakusu,” and the clock on the wall marks each lapse of time with a new tick and a new tock; no one moves and no one talks.

     Akane breaks the silence with a confident statement, if not a little spoiled, “I want ice cream.” Izaya laughs and Shizuo gapes at the smooth of Izaya’s neck, the opening of his V-neck leading to his chest, the way his fingers grace the air and how his lips stretch to accommodate a peal of laughter. “Didn’t you have an ice pop just now? I remember you shoving the whole thing in your mouth when I came in.” She smiles sheepishly. “Izaya onii-chan, I don’t see any ice pop here,” and she looks in the apartment dramatically, big doe eyes in an act of innocence. Shizuo can’t help but smile at her antics. “Oh great, would you look at that! She’s learning your ways Orihara-kun.” Izaya shrugs. “It doesn’t sound like such a horrible thing to me.” Shinra sneers. “Only you would say that!” Izaya laughs, brash and mocking, the polishing of a knife, and he looks at Shinra’s eyes as if wanting to plunge his new sharpened switchblade straight into his brain through the sockets first. “There are worse things to be out there, worse examples she can learn from.” Shizuo recognizes the insult for what it is and he can’t help but silently agree, nodding his head to himself, though Izaya catches it in his peripheral vision.

Shinra claps his hands “Yes, well-”

“Courier-san, you’ll get a call or text soon. It’s a job to take Akane to wherever they inform you. It’s her father, if not, someone he delegated.” Izaya eases Akane to the floor and sits next to Shizuo, reaching inside his jacket and taking a black envelope out. “This is for Li-pei Ei. He will be waiting for you at Russia Sushi. This job is after Akane’s, yes?” Celty nods in understanding.

[Do you want lemon cake?]

     “He doesn’t like lemon cake.” At that, Izaya looks to Shizuo, eyes widening marginally against the complete halting of his heart. “You…know?” Shizuo makes a face. “Well, yeah. I was there. In high school, there was this event thing and they had lemon cake. You tasted it and practically threw up on the spot. Don’t blame you; shit’s disgusting.” Izaya smiles, genuinely, and his words are soft as he answers back, “yeah, it is.” Shinra gasps. “What?! Orihara-kun! You love lemon cake!” Shizuo looks at Shinra and back to Izaya, rolling his eyes and Izaya can’t help the warmth that spreads in his veins at the prospect of sharing their own inside joke.

     The moment is mildly tainted by the ring of Celty’s PDA, causing Akane to jump in place and look at Izaya with furrowing eyebrows and glassy eyes. Celty takes her PDA out of her sleeve and reads the text, automatically reaching for her helmet. She looks to Akane, showing her and Izaya the message. Izaya motions Akane to come to him and she runs the short distance, burying her face in his chest. “I don’t want to go! What will you do without me?!” Izaya takes hold of her face and brings his forehead to hers, smiling tenderly. “I’ll be just fine, Akane-chan.” She sniffles, averting her gaze and he brushes the tears away before they tumble down her apple cheeks. “Don’t cry, you’ll see me again. Probably, in a few minutes, actually.” She smiles, a little pained, but mostly authentic. “I’ll see you again? Promise?” His eyes soften at the corners. “Yes.”

She lets him go and looks to Shizuo. “You too?”

He nods. “Of course.”

Celty stretches her hand out to her and Akane grabs it, following the Dullahan as the door closes after them.

“Orihara-kun, I hope you know what you’re doing. Working for the Awakusu is one thing but going against them?”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head. It’s easy, you do it all the time, I’m sure you'll remember how to do it soon enough. Anyway, my work here is done! Bye-bye!”

Izaya walks out of the apartment and Shizuo trails after him.

“Wait, Izaya-kun!”

“Yes, Shizu-chan?”

“Thanks, and all, but you put a girl in danger.”

“I did no such thing.”

“They threatened her,” and his voice is not accusatory.

“Yes, and I knew they would just like Akane-chan knew. It wasn’t a real threat, Shizu-chan. It’s called acting.”

“Oh.”

“I would never put Akane-chan in real danger,” and the weight of the gun Shizuo can’t see is suddenly heavy in his jacket.

“What about you?”

Izaya tilts his head to the side and smiles a soft small thing. “Does Shizu-chan care about little ol’ me?” He pretends to look at an invisible watch on his wrist. “Will you look at the time! I best be going, you know, I’m a busy, busy man, Shizu-chan; saving monsters and such.” He waves behind himself.

“Be careful out there, Izaya-kun! If I can’t kill you don’t let me hear that some cheap bastard could!”

“Cross my heart! I’d never taint your dignity in such a way!”

Their laughter echoes through the hallway and Shizuo watches the elevator numbers count down to the lobby.

\---------- 

     Izaya strolls down the heart of Ikebukuro and the smell of thousands of dinners being cooked is nausea flaring deep in his stomach. He squints his eyes, pain flickering behind them, and the feverish feeling on his nape intensifies. A black glistening car stops next to him, window rolling down but Izaya doesn’t need to see to know who it is. “Informant-san,” and Izaya stops himself from scoffing at the public display of professionalism when what Shiki really likes is fucking Izaya hard against any solid surface he can find like the desperate animal he is. “Shiki-san. Can I help you with anything?” and Shiki either doesn’t perceive the fake of his smile or overlooks it. “I would like you to meet someone. Are you busy?” Izaya shrugs. “Not at all.” Shiki opens the door and gets out of the limousine, Akane behind him; Izaya expected nothing less. “This is the daughter of Mikiya-sama, Akane-chan.” Izaya lowers himself to her height “Hello, Akane-chan. It’s a pleasure to meet such a beautiful young lady!” She giggles. “I’m Izaya.”

“Can I call you Izaya onii-chan?”

“Anything you want.”

Shiki holds the door wider. “I have to take Akane-chan to her home, but I can also give you a ride if you wish.” Izaya knows that would only lead to sex and the thought of Shiki’s hands alone, anywhere near him, makes his nausea return, breathing quickening faintly.

“Ah, thank you for the offer, but you may drop me at Russia Sushi. I have business to attend to. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course. We’ll stop by there first then.”

“Perfect!”

      Akane is on Izaya’s lap eating an ice pop that leaves her lips red, and she hums around it to a lullaby he’s sure her mother sings so she can sleep at night. He sees Shizuo walking down the street to the bar; the job he still has, but Izaya can only think of a new memory he has of Shizuo hating lemon cake just as much as he does. He knows he’s becoming a shell of who he used to be, can feel it, even if he only took half a pill today but right now, he’s a grown up in the backseat of Shiki’s car as the executive all but swallows the acidic taste of the betrayal he believes occurred but has no proof of.

The air is chilly, the sun is setting; it’s a summer afternoon and Izaya can feel laughter bubbling deep in his lungs.

* * *

Are the Giants of the City Alive?

**DOLLAR$**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Let us say a quick goodbye to Li-pei Ei, Chikage Roukjo, and Mikiya Awakusu. These are characters I'm 99% will not make another appearance.  
> -Let us also say goodbye to this small arc.  
> -I'm inclined to believe I've kind of made Ikebukuro a character on its own with the way I write about it.  
> -Let us say hello to our boys in the same room, directing words to each other, meaning more interaction. Slow burn, though, keep that in mind. Don't expect them to be in love, having sex, getting married in a flashy ceremony and adopting a herd of children in the next chapter, haha.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed this update and the progression of the story. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think of "Stem"  
> I love feedback and interacting with my readers!  
> -3B


	6. Internode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izaya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of a plant stem between two of the nodes from which leaves emerge.

Izaya has run away from home; he's ten years old.

     In the suburbs of Ikebukuro, the snow piles up on top of the backyard grass that used to be nothing but greenery. It falls, ripping with it the few asagaos that withstood autumn. It leaves the branches bare, crushing the flowers under its heavy load. There’s an abandoned house behind his own that has been empty for more than two years now. The backdoor is broken and sometimes, from his room, he can hear it pound sporadically with the gust that hits at night. The stairs creek with his weight and so does the hinges when he pushes the room’s door open. There’s dust hovering in the air and underneath his feet, there’s a pink carpet with mud and dirt at the corners. He scrunches up his toes to grasp at the loose threads of wool. Dried up dead cicadas lay, belly up, on the few dark wood furniture that was left behind. He lays his arms on the window will, resting his chin in the crook of his inner elbow. The sun is bright against the falling hail that remains frozen until they crack and scatter when they touch asphalt. The sky is blue at the borders with a mixture of orange, pink, and purple at the center. On the roofs, as far as the eye can see, there’s nothing but white, and it appears to glitter like diamonds when sunlight hits. Orihara Shirou, his father, is an absentee who left on a winter just like this. Izaya hasn’t seen him, not since he was six months old and learning how to speak. Shirou is out west in a country no one has felt the need to share the name of. He imagines his father must have found something amazing, something stunning somewhere over the sparkling sea. At least, when they ask, that’s what he tells the other kids. He admires him, anticipates following in his invisible footsteps and he wants to grow up to be just like how he fantasizes him to be. Izaya looks at worn out and frayed photographs to remember, relearn, his father’s features. He has short unkept black hair, fair skin, an eyebrow slightly raised and chin tilted up. He stands with a straight spine, white suit on, making him look tall and lean. Izaya loves his father, his phantasm because he’s never around to let him down but that doesn’t take away the distant awareness that he’s been abandoned.

     He wraps his arms around himself, over the black jacket that is too long for his petite body, almost reaching down to his ankles. The walls of the house are humid and with every breath he takes the mist becomes thick inside his lungs. He sniffles; the chill that seeps through the window leaving the tip of his nose red. He walks to the other side of the room so that he has a full view of the inside of his house. He leans his back on the wall and opens his backpack, taking out a cream-colored fur blanket and placing it on his shoulders, ticking his ears. He chews on strawberry pocky as he takes out a flashlight, places the batteries in, and screws the top back on, prepared for nightfall. From where he sits, he can hear his sisters crying and the small hiccups in between their screaming. He can see the silhouette of his mother walking towards the commotion and even with just the outline of her shape he can distinguish her beauty. She has pale skin and pursed lips. Her hair is dark brown, cut straight at the end, and reaching a little over the middle of her back. When she returned for her monthly visit this time around, she had sideways bangs that accentuate her slim sharp jawline. Her body is soft and curved at the edges, but Izaya’s throne, his place on his mother’s comfortable lap, has been stolen by two identical girls; Mairu and Kururi. They demand all her attention and that’s how he’s become nothing more but a ghost floating around an otherwise silent home. His body trembles in the cold and his skin erupts in goosebumps but he’s persistent if not stubborn; he ran away in the middle of the afternoon for her, just for her.

     A little less than a year ago, Kyouko came through the front door with a round belly. She said she had a gift for him, something he could call his own but it wasn’t ready yet. Izaya’s eyes shone and his teeth showed; it was the first time his young face resembled that of a child. As her stomach grew so did the amount of excitement that coursed through his veins. Her smile seemed to have become a permanent fixture on her lips and the crinkled corners of her eyes glowed in a way he had never seen before. Often, she would invite him into her bed; when he had a nightmare or when her body had become too uncomfortable to sleep. He felt like the child he was meant to be, soaking in the warmth of her skin that penetrated his. Her heartbeat had become his lulling song and perhaps that was his mistake; adapting to the sound of her voice, relishing in the moments she danced with him in the middle of the living room, getting accustomed to the small pecks she left on his head. It was his mistake to believe that is how mothers treat their sons; to think her care could be everlasting. Greedily, he drank in her affection unaware of the stopwatch silently counting down the seconds until she had nothing left to give, until Valentine’s day, when the twins were born, and she no longer had a place in her ribs for three, for him. Less than a week later, he awoke to birds chirping, snow melting, and his mother opening the front door with a suitcase in hand. “Mom?” and she had the audacity to have an almost guilty look plastered on her face. Her tone of voice was neutral, if not exasperated. “Izaya, don’t start with me, alright?” and he nodded, waiting for his mother’s explanation as to why his stomach had knotted and his eyes were glossing over. “I have to go back to work. Be good and take care of your sisters.” He didn’t have a chance to say anything back, not over the speed nor sound of the door slamming shut. She didn’t say goodbye, instead, she disappeared into nothingness; a habit of hers. A few seconds later the twins began to sob and he wondered then what he was supposed to do.

He prepared two bottles of milk as he would see her do and didn’t care to wipe the tears that ran down his face.

     Today, she’s home. She’s been in Japan for a full week and, by analyzing her stays, he has concluded that tomorrow she will leave. To gauge her reaction, he has whispered how much he loves her every night and she responds with the same words but they are empty and hollow, a noise the wind makes in the background; sometimes, she only hums without looking back. He lives with confusion heavy and tight in his chest over his mother’s change. He wants to ask what he did wrong and if there is a way to fix it. He wants to know why she doesn’t want him anymore and what he can do to win her love back as if he should work for it as opposed to being unconditional from her part. Nowadays, she speaks on the phone more than she looks in his general direction. She doesn’t push him out of the way, she doesn’t scream, in fact, she doesn’t lay a figure on him and he would take her anger, her abuse if only to have something of hers. Maybe that is the saddest part; Kyouko has the inability to see how fragile and brittle Izaya truly is. She ignores how impressionable his thoughts can be as it absorbs every praise and every scornful look, as it saves her disregard, the annoyed quality of her tone in which she speaks when she can’t find another way to ignore him.

     He takes out a pack of new playing cards, the crinkling of the clear wrapper loud in the vacant two-story house and he crumples it, throwing it blindly to a far-off spot in the room. He pulls on the lid of the thin cardboard box, letting the plastic case slide into his hand, opening it with a click. He brings the stack up to his nose and inhales, the scent reminiscent of petrichor. He admires the lack of wear-and-tear, the smooth surface under his fingertips, the design. Instead of the standard European pattern for the suits, his deck is printed with traditional Japanese art. Some of the images can be considered too mature for a child of his age but he isn’t scandalized by unclothed breasts. They aren’t particularly accurate to real life and though he’s completely aware of their possible provocative allure, Izaya is young but not particularly naïve, he finds his deck beautiful. He shuffles the cards and listens to the flap of them as they hit each other, as they touch his nails. He’s had many toys before but her favorite to give are cards because “they’re not messy and boisterous,” and maybe there are deep-seated reasons that accumulate as time passes by that explain why he feels laughter boiling deep in his lower abdomen when he encounters fire, when paper rips, when he drops glass to shatter into million pieces of shards. He places the cards down in the layout of patience and looks out the window to see the shadow of her cradling one of his sisters. They are still loud, still crying, and how can she prefer them over her quiet obedient son?

Noise can be an overwhelming novelty but silence is a vital familiarity.

     Hours slither away like this. He plays patience alone on the dirty hardwood flooring of an abandoned house in the middle of the night, flashlight on, and shivering bones. Carefully, he tucks his deck away, mindful of any creases he may create. He places his backpack on the floor and lays his head on it. He wraps the blanket tighter around his body and bites down grinding on his jaw to contain the chattering of his perfect, straight teeth. Snow inside the glow of the moon seems bright and white like fairy lights. Rain falls, hitting on the ceiling and the pitter-patter of it on the street, on the half-open window, soothes him. Slowly, his lids drop with the heaviness of exhaustion and when he reopens them, the yellow bulbs of his house are dark. He puts his thumb between lips and sucks, an infantile comfort mechanism he keeps. Before he surrenders to sleep, the question, _will she notice I’m gone?_ flutters in his mind, tumbling down to his extremities. 

     Morning comes with a shining sun, a chill in the wind but a slight warmth to the air. His stomach grumbles and he stands, folding his blanket and tucking it into his backpack. He goes to the bathroom and washes his mouth with paste, his small toothbrush, and a bottle of water he brought. He walks out to his house and hopes his mother is frantically calling the authorities, but he’s not all that surprised to see her with her phone in hand speaking to his father about heading back to wherever it is they hide together. He could call himself a fool, but in truth, he never truly expected anything of her. Kyouko doesn’t do it on purpose but Izaya’s certain; his mother tends to stay long enough to hate and not long enough to love. He stares at her and he tilts his head to the side in curious acknowledgment; she’s rather fond of crossing her arms over her chest as if protecting something precious, which is ironic because Orihara Kyoko has a tiny heart that has less capacity than the hold of Izaya’s small hands. His stomach rumbles once again and he heads to the kitchen, standing on a stepping stool to grab the snacks on the top cabinet. He opens a bag of salty chips when she walks in and rakes her eyes over him. “Izaya, why are you so goddamn dirty?” She sighs. “For goodness sake, get yourself cleaned up.” A record, he thinks, that’s the most she’s spoken to him this week and she’s practically a foot out the door already. She scrunches up her eyebrows, narrowing her eyes. “I’m leaving. Don’t eat that junk. You’ll die young and fat.” He opens his mouth and she cuts him off, finger pointing at him defiantly. “Don’t talk back to me, understood? I know best.” She grabs the handle of her luggage and pulls on it, the wheels moving effortlessly on the floor, and just like that, she’s gone. He throws the bag of chips away, not even half-eaten, and listens to the engine of the cab as it quiets down the further she gets.

Orihara Kyouko is his poltergeist.

\----------

      Izaya drowns a pill in his mouth with a gulp of water. He swallows and the capsule scratches at the inside of his throat, traveling down to fill the void in his stomach. The bottle slips from his hand and it clatters on the linoleum, the tablets rattling against the plastic. Listless and graceful, he lays on the charcoal couch letting his arm hang over the edge, fingers grazing the burgundy rug. It’s going to rain; he can hear it on the newscast, can see it in the gray clouds that roll by, not yet hiding the sun. The noise of the air conditioner is ever present but a thin layer of sweat clings to his chest causing his shirt to hug his skin as if to asphyxiate. Drained, his lids drop but he can't embrace sleep as tight as he'd like to. He's lucky; he's managed to sleep two hours total this week and that's as much as he's managed to since he started to take the medication a month ago. He wills his body to relax as if boneless but the shrill tone of his personal phone startles him, eyes snapping wide. He thinks of letting it ring to fill in the silence in between the low volume of the television and the muffled sound of the city outside. He reads the caller ID, screen blinking insistently, and he inhales deeply, accepting the call and placing the speaker over his ear.

There’s something stale in the surfaces of his apartment, reflecting the light with not a drop of dust or neglect.

     He exhales before, “Hello?” There’s clamor on the other line and over it, a voice, beautiful and ugly all the same. “Pick up the girls and tell them I’ve already left.” The corners of his mouth plummet with his lungs and his voice is devoid of all it usually holds on to. “Can’t you tell them yourself? They have phones. I pay for them.” She sighs, irritated, and he wonders when she isn’t when speaking to him. “Don’t be difficult.” He mutters under his breath, “difficult,” and though it is whispered next to the quiet that surrounds him, it is loud enough for his disapproving mother to hear. “What was that?” and her tone is defensive. He berates himself for saying, “nothing,” like a scared infant instead of the man he should be. She must take notice of his irregular breathing because she has the nerve to ask, “did I catch you in the middle of sex? Be mindful, will you? We don’t need you to get infected with anything or worse, babies.” He rolls his eyes and counters, “that’s not a problem,” because of course, she doesn’t know that he’s been fucking the same old man since he was fifteen. The green leaves sway in the warm breeze and they clutch their place up high in the branches. She hums. “You’re not eating any of that junk food, I hope.” The air that surrounds him smells of fresh brewed tea and vanilla beans but he has no idea what food even tastes like anymore. “Of course not." Of course, she doesn’t know that either. “Good,” and if she sounds something close to proud it’s just his imagination. “You left. You didn’t see me this time.” She clears her throat and doesn’t say anything for a while but it’s not because she’s thinking of what to say, it’s not that she’s nervous to answer, there's not a guilty particle in her body; it’s only because she’s gathering her belongings before boarding the plane. “Correct. I was meant to leave tomorrow. I would have seen you right before my flight but business calls.” It probably should hurt more, and it would if he wasn’t accustomed to this if he didn’t expect her to forget him one of these days anyway. There’s noise on the other side before, “Tell the girls. Goodbye,” and then, the dull sounds of the city come into focus with her voice dissipating in the wind that howls louder than she's ever been.

     Izaya brings the phone down to his chest, clasping it until his knuckles turn white. He pushes himself up with tremulous legs and balances his weight on slim feet. Television off and the silence rings deep in his eardrum, too quiet in comparison to his shouting thoughts. His fingers caress the wooden shelves and his eyes stop at his favorite playing cards that stand on display. They serve as a reminder of the day when he finally saw himself for the mere furniture he was, alone in his beautiful childhood house where everything was daunting and so much bigger than he. It was her Mononoke-like hands that crushed his heart until blood oozed from the inside out. It’s only in his mind, however, that her nails are long and jagged, digging into his organs. It doesn’t matter how many pages of a calendar are ripped he still doesn’t love her but that doesn’t stop him from wishing she loved him. Sometimes, Izaya hopes her plane crashes at sea so her body can sink and never be found and other times he hopes she turns back to stay. Nowadays though, he doesn’t know what he wants from her. Shinjuku doesn't seem to have asagaos anywhere in sight. Behind his luxurious apartment, Izaya knows, there are no abandoned houses with creaking doors and humid walls. In the blink of an eye, it will snow, but the only similarity to winters in the suburbs of Ikebukuro is the men who are never home and the women who don't care at all.

     It’s a second skin, the sleeves that drape over his limbs, the jacket that settles on top of his slender shoulders. It’s almost instant, the way in which his eyes narrow into a calculating gaze and his lips turn a little sharp at the corners with the weight of the coat on his skin. The door closes shut behind him and with its crash his spine straightens. Tremors travel through his blood vessels shooting down to his knees and weakening the certainty of each step he makes, but he wraps his movements in elegance, hiding the quivers well. His features are distorted in the reflection on the metal walls of the elevator and the white light above his head washes away the pink of his cheeks. The doors slide open to the gray-colored lobby and the heels of his shoes keep in beat with his walk until his stride is hushed by the cool-toned blue rug that’s beneath his feet. “Orihara-san?” and the voice is sweet but mature, he’s never heard it before. He turns his neck to the reception desk where a woman stands, big brown eyes surrounded by thick long lashes. Her face is round and her brown hair is held in a low bun that rests on her nape. “I haven’t seen you before.” She nods. “Part-time.” He hums. “How did you know my name?” She claps enthusiastically and explains, “I’ve met all the other tenants, so I assumed, the one left had to be Orihara-san.” He gives her a half-smile. “I like smart women.” She laughs, dismissing the comment with a wave of her hand. “Sure, that, and when I asked, the tenants described you. The jacket is accurate to the tales.” He smirks. “Is that so? What else did they say?” and he saunters towards her elbow on counter and his chin on an open palm. She diverts her eyes upwards to the vintage chandelier that clashes with the modern décor of the building. “Mm…black hair, fair skin,” she counts with her fingers, “brown eyes, kind of red in the light,” she says, tone playful. He huffs and rolls his eyes with faux annoyance. “Is that all? How boring!” She chuckles. “Well, they said you lived in the top floor,” she points to the ceiling, “so rich and probably powerful. Young but with presence and maybe even…intimidating.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Oh! What lovely neighbors I have!” He flips his hair and pops up the fur-trimmed hoodie up. She giggles, clapping her hands. “Yes! Witty, charming, charismatic, and intelligent too.” She leans forward and lowers her voice to an almost whisper but not quite. “Don’t tell Orihara-san, you hear!” He nods fervently, broad smile in place, “but a young man described him as excruciatingly attractive and a midlife-crisis lady said he was tragically unattainable,” and she pouts, as if saddened, though she smiles with the corners of her eyes and he cackles, throwing his head back, holding on to the edge of the counter.

“Nice to know. What’s your name?”

She gasps. “Oh! Orihara-san! My manners! I apologize. I’m Aimi.”

“Aimi-chan. I’m assuming with the Kanji for love and beautiful?”

“Yes! How did you guess!?”

“I would imagine your parents loved you even before laying an eye on you. No one would call their child with the Kanji for ugly or death.” He shrugs and she giggles. “Well, Aimi-chan, I’m devastated to cut this short but I have errands to run in the wild! Call me a cab?”

“Of course!”

“Thank you!” and she hums around a smile, dialing on the phone as he walks outside.

     A yellow glistening taxi stops next to the sidewalk in front of Izaya and he opens the door, sitting on the passenger seat. The driver eyes him but accepts the address, turns the key in the ignition, engine coming to life, and he steps on the gas. It’s not long when the poignant sign of Ikebukuro, as vivid as it has always been, comes into view behind the dirty windshield. Izaya bounces his leg and rests his temple on the closed window. It’s been a little over a week since the last time Izaya left his apartment and though the days are similar they are never the same. He sighs, staring out the car, taking notice of a tennis court and he asks, “have you ever played tennis?” looking forward to filling in the quietness with someone else’s voice. “When I was younger and my bones didn’t creak every time I moved, yes. You?” Izaya watches the sweat drop down the player’s neck, watches their noses crease when they swing their racquets, mouth opening on a grunt. “No, but I know how to.” The man hums. “I used to play all the time when I was a teen like you.” Izaya chuckles at that. It’s ironic, he feels old. “I’m twenty-four.” The man gasps, smile lines appearing on his face. “Really? You seem so young! Are you a sports type of guy?” Izaya thinks about it for a moment and he settles for, “I can be,” and it’s not his intention when the words come out as a purr. “To be young again. If I knew then what I know now I wouldn’t have wasted so much time.” Izaya repeats, “wasted?” and the man fidgets. “C’mon sir! You can’t possibly leave me here after that!” Izaya’s smile is broad, genuine, and the man exhales in resignation, though he's not angry about it. “I loved this woman once.” Izaya whispers, “love,” and the man smiles, small and bittersweet. “Do you love anyone?” Izaya looks at the man, who stares back at him before focusing on the road once again. “No? but…” and the man perks up, eyes bright with child-like curiosity. “Well?! Don’t leave an old man hanging! I could get a heart attack any minute now, I don’t have time, young man!” Izaya laughs, throwing his head back, his entire body vibrating with the elation. There's something endearing, the man thinks, as Izaya turns almost timid. “I like someone, kind of. I-I’m attracted…to them, maybe?” The man makes a noise of recognition. “Someone?” and Izaya clarifies, “I like a man.”

The man doesn't react but he does ask, “Is he good for you?”

Izaya shrugs. “I like him.”

The man looks at him. “If you could choose to let yourself fall in love with him or not, would you?”

 _I want to know what love feels like._ “Yes.”

“Are you sure you don’t love him already? Maybe it's a seed and that’s why you don’t notice it yet.”

There’s something akin to hope in Izaya’s eyes. “Who knows.”

The man drops him off and doesn’t take the money Izaya offers, driving off with a “good luck.”

\----------

     Izaya rests his arm against the doorframe, leaning all his weight on the wood. Mairu and Kururi take notice of him through the mirrors and it’s Kururi who, with her soft-spoken voice, asks, “Iza-nii?” uncertainty lacing her expression. He exhales, looking at her with shadows under his eyes. “Why are you here?” and Mairu doesn’t mean for her words to come out harsh or disapproving, but even when they do, Izaya doesn’t react to her tone. “Kyouko left.” Confusion mars Mairu’s face, voice booming and high-pitched, “why didn’t she just call us?!” He shrugs. “I don’t see why any of this is surprising. She might be nicer to you but she’s still Kyouko, all she knows is how to leave.” Kururi grabs hold of his arm tenderly. “Why?” and Izaya didn’t know her voice could get any lower, quieter. “Work,” he says simply. Kururi nods and Mairu shouts, changing topic altogether, “I want ice cream, Iza-nii!” and though it sounds like a demand, it’s a plea more than anything. “Finish with the lesson first.” Kururi kisses his chest, on top of his shirt, and uncurls her hand from his jacket, leaving wrinkles where her fist used to be. Kururi moves as if the energy has been extracted from her while Mairu runs on adrenaline, attacks rougher than needed.

     Mikage walks in his direction and closes the door once she’s outside next to him. She crosses her arms over her chest, leans her back onto the wall and props up a foot. “That mother of yours is a real bitch.” He shrugs. “She’s lovely, as usual.” She takes a moment to stare at him looking at the flowers that grow at the edge of the property before, “Izaya, I-I have something to tell you.” His eyes brighten with interest and he circles his wrist, motioning her to continue. “I’m moving to Kyoto, today, after the girls leave.” The white of his eyes show. “Elaborate.” She twirls a piece of her short brown hair around a finger and explains, “I met someone, been dating them for a while. He’s good for me and, I just…” He nods once. “You’ve gotten over me.” She sighs. “No, but he can help with that?” The sky rumbles and he can smell the rain though it hasn’t fallen yet. “I’d advise against it, but you’re grown up enough to make your own decision.” She shuffles from one leg to the other. “He’s not the reason I’m moving to Kyoto, not particularly. I’ve been meaning to leave this wretched place and even if it doesn’t work with that son of a bitch, I can make Kyoto my home.” He laughs. “Nice way to talk about Mr. Right.” She smiles genuinely, crinkling the corners of her eyes, but it doesn’t stop the dampness in her waterline. “I’m thankful for your advice. It’s always right, but this time I’m going to ignore it and hope for the best, yeah?” He sniffs but the sound is drowned by the falling rain. “Yeah,” and something must show in his face, “don’t fucking look at me like that you manipulative little shit.” His voice cracks as he says, “I’m not looking at you in any specific way.” She laughs, wet and nasally. “You’re looking at me as if I’m abandoning you. It’s not like we see each other often,” and she means it as comfort, but if it helps him, it doesn’t help her. He waves his hand in her face “Please, I have no heart!” and there’s so much she could say to refute that. She could tell him that she’s so in love with him that it hurts, threating to burst her heart in two, but she doesn’t. “I’ll miss you, you know?” He doesn’t tell her that everyone leaves, that he expected her to go long ago, instead, he raises a playful eyebrow and says, “Yeah? We barely see each other anyway.”

Mairu and Kururi slam the door open and Mairu smiles sheepishly, shouting “Sorry!” as if Izaya and Mikage weren’t a few feet away. “We’ll wait in the ice cream shop, Iza-nii!” and they run out in the rain while Izaya mock salutes Mikage and hides his hands inside the pockets of his jacket. “Good luck in Kyoto, it’s a beautiful place. Keep in touch,” even though they both know they won’t and just like that, he’s gone.

She enters the dojo, locking the door and she falls to her knees, sobbing into her hands. She’s been in love since before he saved her, helped her; before she lost her virginity to him.

By the time she’s on the train to Kyoto, she's certain, she’ll never fall out of love with Izaya.

\----------

Izaya sits across from the twins.

     Mairu talks animatedly around her colorful and overflowing banana boat, remnants of it falling everywhere, from the table to her clothes. Kururi listens intently with not many words in return, eating a classic ice cream sandwich. Izaya sips hot mint tea and he hopes the ripples on the surface of it doesn’t give his trembling fingertips away. His hearing comes in and out of focus to the mostly one-sided conversations his sisters keep. Kururi is the one that looks at him the most and though he stares out the window he can see her from his peripheral vision, and it makes him anxious; a little paranoid _._ He cranes his neck to smile at her in something he hopes is comfort, dismissive. She simply stares back with her mostly apathetic brown eyes, biting into the cold treat without flinching before changing the direction of her gaze to Mairu, who overcompensates the noticing of Izaya’s weight loss with louder words and over the top mannerisms. “Iza-nii! We haven’t done anything together in a long time.” He rolls his eyes. “Mairu, what are you talking about? We never do.” She huffs. “That’s the point, dummy! We should do something.” His eyebrows meet in the middle. “I’m not Kyouko’s replacement. Fill in your disappointment and loneliness with someone else.” She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I just wanted us to hang out!” He laughs bitterly and the sound of it rips through her chest, Kururi tightening her grip of Mairu’s hand. “You haven’t wanted to ‘hang out’ since you were toddlers. You’d laugh if I die, right?” and he smirks at the way Mairu’s eyes turn wide. Kururi stops eating, her hunger all but gone. “Get yourselves back home.” He sighs. “If anything happens, call.”

In an alley, covered in rain, Izaya contains his tears by breathing harshly and he hates them for being the spitting image of Orihara Kyouko, for earning his love from the moment he held them in his arms.

\----------

     The pink of the clouds transfers to the apples of his cheeks and the orange of the sky lights up the red in his eyes. The wind ruffles his hair, making its way in between the strands of black. The air tousles the hem of his jacket, causing the fur to caress the base of his throat. His skin erupts in cold shivers that run down the base of his spine. Above him, birds fly with extended blue wings, singing songs that he can never learn to understand. Under him there’s a faraway mumble of noise, shouts and car horns, but at the edge of the rooftop, in the heart of Ikebukuro, it’s serene. “Don’t fall on me,” and there’s a smile on Izaya’s face as he turns. The yellow that reflects off the metal of skyscrapers is absorbed into the honey of Shizuo’s irises. The lukewarm sunlight streams towards him, painting half of his face in purple complementing the gold glow of his hair. Izaya outstretches his arm in silent invitation and Shizuo accepts without a word, ambling towards the edge, standing tall next to Izaya. “You know, Shizu-chan, you can’t see the sunset properly with those sunglasses on.” Shizuo laughs and takes the frames off, slipping them into his breast pocket. Izaya watches as Shizuo transfers the cigarette from in between his fingers to the top of his tongue. He presses the flint wheel a couple of times before the flames emerge, catching the paper on fire, and he inhales deeply before exhaling and Izaya is mesmerized as the smoke swirls around Shizuo like a magic trick. “Do you know that cigarettes kill?” Shizuo looks at him now and he likes that Izaya is shorter than him by a few inches. He raises an eyebrow with amusement clinging to the corner of his mouth. “I’ve heard.”

     Shizuo nudges Izaya on the shoulder and when Izaya diverts his gaze from the setting sun to him, he points between the cigarette hanging from his teeth and Izaya, a question in his eyes. Izaya doesn’t hesitate when he reaches out, fingertips caressing Shizuo’s lips. Shizuo watches, engrossed on the informant in front of him like he’s the one who placed the stars that he can’t see behind the city fumes. To Shizuo, the world has stopped spinning on its axis as Izaya brings the butt to his rosy lips, inhaling, lids dropping. Smoke clouds Izaya’s face like mist on an autumn afternoon and when Izaya opens his eyes, Shizuo notes that he enjoys looking into them, the thought hitting him as hard as his heart begins to pound inside his neck. “Izaya, I-” The words die in his throat but Izaya knows, they both do. Instead, Izaya takes some time to stare at the profile of Shizuo’s face and he wonders if the giddy tepid feeling in his chest is anywhere close to what love is meant to feel like. He flicks at the butt with his thumb so the ash can disperse in the stratosphere. Shizuo takes the offered cigarette back and he can still feel the heat of Izaya’s mouth in his when he breathes in. “I didn’t know you…” and he shakes his wrist, signaling to the cigarette between two of his fingers. Izaya shrugs. “Not really. It’s a sometimes kind of thing.” Izaya’s takes a deep breath and when he speaks, his tone is low like a whispered purr, “chase me, Shizu-chan.”

The city carries out the echo of “Izaya-kun!” intertwined with Izaya’s florescent laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The flower Asagao, also called Morning Glory, symbolizes “Brief love” and “Bond of love.”  
> -For all that is worth, let us say goodbye to Shirou.  
> -Phantasm: a figment of the imagination; an illusion or apparition. An illusory likeness of something.  
> -The stack Izaya owns is Utamaro Ukiyo-E Playing Cards. [See Deck Here](http://www.wopc.co.uk/japan/angel/utamaro-ukiyo-e)  
> -Patience = Solitaire.  
> -Petrichor: Smell of rain on the earth.  
> -Poltergeist: Ghost/spirit that is responsible for loud noises, objects moving around, pinching, knocking on doors, etc. They haunt a particular person instead of a specific location.  
> -Aimi is the reason why I added the "Original Female Character" tag but she's not completely an OFC. She was given no name and no personality in canon, but a female character was mentioned once for a particular piece of information concerning another major character in canon. Her reason in canon will be used for a small subplot in the future of this story. So, this isn't the last of her.  
> -Holy... My longest chapter yet! 6k+ words. *wipes sweat from forehead*  
> \- I admit: Though the story says 26 chapters total, it's an estimate. It may be less, exact, or more.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy! Please leave a comment and feedback! I appreciate every word and I always respond!  
> -3B


	7. Petiole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shizuo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stalk that joins a leaf to a stem; leafstalk.

At five in the morning, Ikebukuro has been awake for hours, and so has Shizuo.

     He sits on the windowsill with one leg hanging over the ledge, the heel of his foot bouncing against the rough terracotta bricks that line the side of the building. The wind, smelling of bread and sugar, travels in between his toes, tickling the sole of his foot. The fork scrapes against the porcelain plate, clacking against his teeth as he closes his lips around it. The pancakes are half-burnt but the maple syrup washes away the bitter taste off his tongue. His apartment is dark except for the yellow and orange that has migrated from the sunrise onto his walls. His bed is quiet and isolated but the ledge isn’t as lonely with all the early-rising passerby’s that walk by his street. Inside his eyes, the city appears to be alive, pulsating like a beating heart. Tokyo doesn’t rest. In the ungodly hour of the morning, voices and their echoes shape into the sound of his name and fingertips click on keyboards as they type out his kanji characters. He’s aware of the rumors that circle like vultures, spreading like wildfire; he’s read them on the Dollars forum and it’s not as if they weren’t true. His red-hot tempter ignites his iron bones to leave devastation in his wake but the city never mentions how good enough of a job it does at destroying itself without him; without Izaya.

     A door slams shut and Shizuo startles with the noise. His shoulders tense but his fingers loosen, fork slipping from his hand into the alley with a faraway clatter. “Fucking 'urusai,'” he says, lacking any bite. There’s a knock on his door and his eyebrows meet in the middle as he cranes his neck in the direction of the sound. He lets go of the plate on top of the counter as he walks past it and the crack of ceramic makes its way through the persistent banging. “I’m coming! I’m coming!” he shouts. Rubbing at his temples, he mumbles. “For fuck’s sake; it’s too early for this shit.” He swings the door open to a short woman with dark roots growing over bleached blonde. She flings herself against him, knocking the air out of his lungs. “Shizuo! Honey! I’m glad to see you!” She hugs him as if to crush his ribs. Her smile is blinding and the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes charming. She takes hold of his arm and pushes him inside the apartment, closing the door with the heel of her shoe. “Took you long enough to open the door for your poor mother!” she says, teasing. “Mom, why are you here this early in the morning?” He whines. She waves her hand, nose upturned like a petulant child. “Don’t try to guilt trip me, young man! You’re awake, aren’t you?” She walks around the kitchen as if it was her own, throwing the broken plate in the trash without a blink of an eye. She prepares instant coffee in his favorite blue mug and she breathes in the smell of coffee as it mingles with tobacco. She quirks an eyebrow at the smoke that comes out of Shizuo’s nose but he shrugs and she mimics the action with no comment.

      He places his cigarette between the ridges of an ashtray to collect a hanging line of ash as he converts the mattress back into a couch. Namiko gazes at him, blowing on the steam. Is there disappointment deep within her? He’s afraid to look her in the eye and see it clear as a summer’s day. What if her bitterness began when he was still unconscious of the world outside her belly? What if he can’t recognize her distaste because she’s always looked this way? Maybe he was only endearing when his tiny fingers could barely hold on to one of her own. Maybe she did love him then; when he was a child waddling with outstretched arms for her to pick him up. He used to be high-pitched laughter and gurgled sounds, but he’s an adult now, a man, with a foul mouth and a too-deep voice that resembles nothing of what it used to be. Perhaps he has disgraced the Heiwajima name causing indignation to flourish inside of her like a garden of weeds. Has she ever been afraid of her little baby boy? Is he what she imagined when she dreamed of being a mother?

Shizuo doesn’t notice the fondness in Namiko’s eyes as she looks at her beautiful son because he’s too busy replacing his mother’s love for self-hatred. 

     Its morning now as opposed to dawn and the blue of the sky is a nice contrast to the gold of Namiko’s hair as it sways in the breeze. Her arms rest on the ledge though her hands hang midair over the alleyway. “Don’t drop my cup; I’ve already dropped a fork today.” She stifles a laugh behind the mug, drinking the last of the lukewarm coffee. She washes the cup, drying her hands on her capris. She walks up to Shizuo reaching the cigarette between his chapped lips. She brings it to her mouth, breathing in the nicotine. Shizuo stares. “I was young once,” she says, as though that explains everything. “Oh.” It’s simple, a sound more than anything but his the rest of his thoughts are strangled in the middle of his throat in a way the smoke is not caught in her mouth. “Honey, aren’t you going to get ready?” and for a moment he doesn’t react, simply watching the fumes leave her lips before he furrows his eyebrows. “What’re you talking ‘bout?” She brushes the non-existent dust from her pants. “I made an appointment? With the doctor?” A frown settles on his face. “Kasuka called me?” He pinches the bridge of his nose and she flicks the ash off the cigarette, humming. “I see. Well, you don’t _have_ to go, I suppose,” but the defeat in her voice is his face being slapped and his heart being crushed. “Shizuo, honey, I know it isn’t your idea but don’t you want to go?” Under the calm, there’s an edge of pleading in her voice. He averts his eyes from her face, watching her crush the cigarette. “What for?” His voice is small, stubborn even, and she must think him difficult; easy to despise but when he looks back at her, she’s smiling. “Who do you think you’re trying to fool, baby? I know you don’t want to be unhappy forever.” Her hand is feather light as it caresses his cheek. “Just come, yeah? Talk to the doctor and if you don’t like it or he can’t offer any help then we never talk about it ever again. I promise.” She raises her pinky and he smiles, wrapping his own with hers. “Ok.” She beams, nodding fervently. “Alright, I’ll wait for you at the bakery while you get ready, ok?” He takes a bite of an apple as he watches the door slam against its wooden frame.

Shizuo drops himself on the couch, staring at the phone for what feels like hours. He takes a bite of the apple, teeth closing with force, vibrating his head. He switches fruit for plastic and dials, placing the speaker over his ear.

Three rings. “Hello? Bro-”

“That was a shit move,” and Shizuo’s voice is low, rumbling in his chest.

Silence. “I did what I thought was best,” and Kasuka’s tone is defensive instead of placating.

Shizuo huffs. “No. You thought I was incapable of making my own decisions. You told mom on me like we aren’t fucking grown ass men.”

Kasuka apologizes and it’s sincere, Shizuo knows. “I just wanted to help,” and he sounds like a child; like he’s seven years old.

Shizuo sighs. “I admit; maybe I needed the push but you can’t force someone to move at the pace you want them to. I’m not incompetent, Kasuka.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I wanted to be there for you like you’ve been there for me.”

Shizuo hums, the phone in between his ear and shoulder as he slips socks over his feet. “Forgiven, just don’t do it again."

There’s a woman’s voice. “I have to go, brother. Again, I apologize.”

There’s a smile in Shizuo’s voice, Kasuka can tell. “Just so you know, your first movie was shit.”

Kasuka laughs and Shizuo doesn’t remember how Kasuka looks when he does. “I know. Talk soon?”

“Yeah.”

Kasuka hangs up and Shizuo finds himself lighting a cigarette with no conscious effort.

     Shizuo stands, placing his weight on his toes. His bare heels seem to pound against the wood, the boards squeaking under him. He slides his arms inside the sleeve, buttoning the cuffs with practiced ease before buttoning the shirt. He pulls his pants over his hip bones, tucking the shirt under the waistband. He tightens the leather belt, the metal clacking as it touches each other. In the mirror, his calloused fingers straighten the bowtie before smoothing the collar over it. He brushes the small wrinkles on his vest with his hands before carding his fingers through his hair to comb. It’s all routine now; an automatic ritual. He slips his wallet inside his back pocket and grabs the neglected cigarette when something breaks, ceramic or glass, and he makes a noise in the back of his throat. He looks around his apartment to see nothing out of place. He tilts his head sideways and his eyes shift to the window. He leans down, hunching his spine, and his eyes widen to ‘urusai’ and the desperate whine that escapes her mouth as a brunet man rips her shirt off, throwing it to the side and sucking on her collarbone. Behind her, a noir-haired man pulls on her hair, coaxing her head to fall on his shoulder as he slips his other hand under the hem of her denim skirt. The latter is not Japanese, that much is obvious by the heavily lined blue eyes and the sharpness of his nose. The silver piercings on his body shine when sunlight hits but the most prominent is the hoop on his lip as he gives her open-mouth kisses on her neck, teeth clinging to her skin. The brunet brings his hands to her ass, brushing the top of them against the foreigner’s crotch, who bucks up to it. He nibbles on the end of his cigarette determined to look away when the brunet shifts angle to reveal Saburo and Shizuo doesn’t divert his gaze.

     The three of them are part of an intricate choreography Shizuo doesn’t remember how to be a part of. It’s been so long since the last time he’s kissed; since he’s been touched; since he’s been part of this dance. Shameless, ‘urusai’ lowers herself on the bed, legs opened wide, knees pulled apart. Wanton and fearless, “fuck me,” she says, throwing her arms over her head. Shizuo’s never been that forthcoming with anything in his life, even when angry. Saburo guides himself into her but, impatient and unafraid, she pushes him into her with hands on thighs. He chokes on his own breath while she arches her back in a way that resembles a snake, breast in a purple bra brushing against his breathless chest. Behind him, the noir-haired hold Saburo by the neck, tilting his face to kiss him on the lips, down to his jaw, dropping to his shoulder blades. Saburo’s skin is tanner in the sunlight, a contrast to the pale, almost translucent, body of the stranger covered in black and bold tattoos. Saburo closes his eyes to the hands on his hips, to the way they caress his lower back. Soft and gentle, he enters Saburo who can’t help but thrust back to him, driving him deeper and Saburo moans louder to the feel of him than to the feel of being inside of her. Saburo’s hair sticks to his forehead with sweat and the stranger laps at the salt on his nape. They move in sync, whining and grunting, asking for more, and Shizuo can’t help but want it too, arousal and humiliation coiling deep in his abdomen.

It’s been a while since he’s kissed; since he’s been touched; since he’s been part of this dance and if burgundy eyes flicker behind his blown-up pupils, no one needs to know.

      Shizuo turns around, shutting the door behind himself. He descends three flights of stairs, tapping an uneven rhythm with his short nails on the railing that clashes with the in-beat tempo of his feet. He sighs, entering the chaos of the city. As he crosses the street, he doesn’t miss how everyone stops and stares; it doesn’t bypass him how they all walk at a reasonable distance as if he was a wild rabid tiger on the prowl. His frown lessens, however, with the image of his mother inside of the bakery, sitting on a front booth. He taps on the glass with his knuckles and she smiles up at him, holding a finger up before standing at the front counter. Shizuo leans on the wall, propping a foot up. He puts on his sunglasses and closes his eyes, leaning his head back. “Hello? Shizuo-san?” Shizuo hums, looking down to a short kid with dark blue hair. “You know, I haven’t seen Izaya-san anywhere. Would you happen to know where he is?” The boy’s lips stretch wide and his yellow teeth seem bloody under the red neon of the open sign behind Shizuo’s head. The boy leans in close. “So, have you finally choked him?” and he overlooks the way Shizuo’s nose scrunches up. “Did you like the way his neck turned purple when you did?” He puts a hand around his grinning mouth, disregarding the veins on Shizuo’s temple, on his fists. “Did it get you off?”

“Excuse me?” They both look at Namiko who stares at the boy with incredulity in between her eyebrows.

“Well, bye-bye!” and the boy skips off.

“Um… well, here,” she hands Shizuo a milkshake. “Strawberry, your favorite!” she says, her smile a little forced.

“Thanks, mom,” and his blood cools with her hand on his lower back.

It's ironic, even if Shizuo is a beast and Izaya a freak, 'the giants of the city' have a human heart. 

\----------

     The chair Shizuo sits on is the color of Izaya’s eyes; a burst amidst the light grey walls and cream-colored rug. It’s comforting and soothing, less aggravating and unnerving than the white of a hospital. There’s a jar with cinnamon sticks in the corner of the office. The scent is a welcome undertone as opposed to the overwhelming smell of bleach or artificial meadows and sunshine. He cracks the joints of his fingers while bouncing a leg incessantly. His veins thrum with pent-up energy, vibrating from the inside out. The door creaks open and he stops breathing, stops moving, as the doctor, in his navy dress shirt and brown trousers, enters the room with smile lines on his cheeks. “Good morning, Heiwajima-san.” Shizuo nods stiffly, staring at the man’s shoulders. The doctor sits on the desk chair, rolling in front of the computer, clicking and typing in the silence. “I see here that you haven’t been to a doctor in quite some time though you’ve been to the hospital on and off since your pre-teens until it stopped around five years ago.” He leans back in his chair, intertwining his fingers together over his stomach. “Ok. What is the reason for today’s visit?” Shizuo looks to the shelf in the corner of the room, a colorful brain model cut in half. “I don’t know. I’m just…pissed all the time and I want to get better. I guess.” The doctor hums. “Alright. I’m going to ask you a series of questions and we’ll go from there, yes?” Shizuo’s heart rises to the base of his throat. He breathes in and exhales slowly before looking into the doctor’s eyes, who nods in understanding.

“Let’s begin. In the past two weeks, how often have you felt down, depressed, or hopeless?”

He wipes the sweat off the palms of his hands on his pants. “Every day.”

“Have you had any suicidal thoughts?” Shizuo averts his gaze and the doctor smiles. “It’s ok, Heiwajima-san. These are standard questions and this a judgment-free, confidential zone.”

Shizuo tugs at his bowtie. “Yes.”

“Recently? Like in the last two weeks?”

Shizuo straightens his spine. “No.”

“Good, good. How is your sleep?”

“I can’t sleep past four in the fucking morning.” Shizuo winces but the doctor doesn’t bat an eye.

“Do you prefer to stay at home rather than going out and doing new things?”

“Yeah. The fucking city hates me anyway.” He shrugs. “What’s the point?”

“I’ve heard,” he says, glum. “The ‘Fortissimo of Ikebukuro’ is it?”

“Yeah.”

“People can be real pieces of work, huh?” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Eating habits?”

“Normal? Maybe? I don’t know? My mother says I’m a glutton.”

The doctor laughs. “Alright.” He picks up a stack of paper and writes on it, signing it on the bottom corner. “I’m prescribing a medication for moods and depression. Take it for a minimum of two weeks to see any changes. It may occur before or after since everyone’s chemistry is different. If you notice any symptoms come back or stop taking them immediately if they include worsening of mood, insomnia, increased anxiety, irregular palpitations, suicidal thoughts, and any symptoms equally as serious. The medication is not addictive. You can stop at any time, though after two weeks, I suggest easing your way out of it as opposed to stopping suddenly." He hands Shizuo the slip. “One pill a day.”

“Ok. I won’t become a zombie or some shit?”

The doctor smiles, pushing his hair behind his ear. “Not going to lie, apathy can occur with some medications and some patients. If this medication doesn’t match up well, you make another appointment to see me and we change it. Hopefully, if we do need to change, we don’t have to try a wide array of medications to see some improvement.”  

Shizuo reads the prescription, _fluoxetine_. “Thanks,” he says, hope lacing his tone.

“No problem, Heiwajima-san. That’s why I’m here.” He opens a drawer and grabs a stack of business cards. “Here; I have a friend, a psychiatrist. She’s fantastic. You don’t have to go, you don’t need to do anything you don’t want to, but if you require extra help or you simply want someone to talk to that isn’t a family or friend, give her a call. Tell her I sent you.”

The doctor stands, outstretching his arm and Shizuo shakes his hand with a sliver of a smile on his face.

Outside, the September air blows half of the weight on his shoulders away. 

\----------

     In the outskirts of Ikebukuro, an electric bell chimes above Shizuo’s head as he opens the door. The man behind the cash register looks up and nods, whipping his neck back up to stare at his bleached hair for a few seconds before lowering his head, flipping a page of his magazine, Shizuo forgotten. The drugstore is dimly lit, the corners cast into shadows, and in the back, a lightbulb flickers with no rhythm. The fans are loud, the blades ingrained with dirt and dust, ruffling the collar of his button-up. His mother’s heels hit the faded and cracked patterned tiles, his own shoes scoffing against the yellowed flooring. He approaches the drop-off window, standing behind the black tape, though there is no one else in sight. A few minutes pass and Shizuo fidgets on his own feet, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows furrowed. The pharmacist sighs, waving him over with eyes trained on the computer. When Shizuo comes close, the pharmacist places his elbow on the counter, leaning his arm on the glass and holding his hand up through the circular opening. Shizuo gives him the prescription slip and the man glimpses at it, reading the medication with an impassive expression on his face before staring back at the monitor. “It will take a second,” he says, monotone. Shizuo nods out of habit rather than for him, who hasn’t even looked up into his vague, general direction once.

     Shizuo heads over to where Namiko stands, two boxes in hand. “I’ve never tried these brands before, maybe I should. My hair needs a touch-up, don’t you think?” He looks at her hair, the roots that are showing. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad. There are a good three inches of black there. I mean, I thought you were a natural blonde!” He chuckles; she laughs. “Maybe you can do it for me?” He cards his fingers in her hair and smiles in a way she hasn’t seen since he was a child and it fills her with a sudden rush of happiness and pride. “Of course, mom,” and even his voice is soft. It’s different at the edge of Ikebukuro. He’s not being gasped at, pointed at, and recognized; he’s no one. Maybe these skyscrapers don’t have to be his. Maybe he doesn’t need his address to be the only one he knows. Perhaps it’s alright that the dark allies between buildings become the places he was raised in that can’t chain him down. It’s ok that the streets he knows are only visited every few decades for weddings and funerals. Today, he’s found a dream, something to look forward to; leaving. “Heiwajima Shizuo,” and Namiko takes the distraction to hide the mist in her eyes, walking to the front counter. Shizuo looks behind himself to see the pharmacist still staring at the screen, holding a white paper bag, shaking it, pills rattling inside.

    Shizuo grabs the bag as the electric bell sounds. Out of reflex, he looks at the security mirror. His eyes widen with the brown hair strands that fall in front of a familiar round face. Big brown eyes flutter, thick lashes like liner; she’s as beautiful as she’s always been. He takes the furthest aisle from her, all but running, dodging the bucket that collects water drops leaking from the ceiling. His hands brush against the boxes that are piled up at the far side. His shoulders meet his mother’s. “Honey?” she calls, concerned, but all that answers her is his silence and the electric ring as he leaves, handle bending slightly under his hold. The breeze is a welcome caress against his flushed cheeks. Back pressed against the cold wall but it doesn’t lower the blood pressure in his neck. Namiko links her arm with his and he his body jumps a centimeter at the touch. She pulls in the direction of his apartment. “Shizuo, honey, why did you run off like that?” Shizuo pretends she didn’t see him retreating in a rush; Shizuo pretends a lot of things. “Hm? No reason,” he says, voice tight in a way that makes her arch an eyebrow but she doesn’t prod, doesn’t push, instead, she walks with a bounce to her step, plastic bag swishing next to her leg. “Do you have an idea of what we’re eating? I mean, you don’t expect me to cook, do you?” Shizuo’s jaw goes slack, mouth opening wide, and the lines between his brows appear. “Of course not! I-I wouldn’t do that!”

She laughs, eyes crinkling. “I know, honey.”

\----------

    Namiko swallows the last of her noodles pretending not to notice Shizuo opening the cap, dropping a pill on the palm of his hand, and slipping it back in the bottle, closing the cap back up. “Shizuo, honey, I need you to talk to me. I want to understand, to be there for you,” she pleads. “Mom,” she nods, serious, eyes set on him, “I can’t take you seriously with that shower cap on your head.” She laughs but the smile doesn’t last long when Shizuo side smile slowly fades. He gazes towards the window, the sun setting behind skyscrapers. “I feel a little lost, you know?” Namiko leans back, eyebrows bunched up. “Why is that, honey?” He looks somewhere behind her. “I know I’m good at breaking things but I haven’t done that in a while and it makes me feel lost in my own body. Like, what else am I good for? Who am I?” The corners of Namiko’s eyes fall. “You’re not destruction, Shizuo,” she says, stern and he glances away. “Shizuo, no. Look at me, baby.” She sets herself between his legs, kneeling on the floor and she holds his face with her hands. “Your strength is a miracle. It’s a helping hand, protection, and comfort. It’s your family and friends trusting you with their own lives. You need to validate the good you do like all the bad you seem to perceive in yourself. Do you understand?” He nods, ignoring his own little voice to believe in her words the same way she puts faith in his muscles; in him.

     He drinks the pill and it’s a placebo effect but he swears he’s already floating, the last pressure on his nape dissipating with the wind. Namiko sits next to him, a hand on his thigh. “I knew you were depressed all this time, you know.” He furrows his eyebrows but when he looks her way she refuses to look back. “Why didn’t you do or say anything?” he asks, no accusation. She laughs, self-deprecating and ugly in a way it should never be. “What was I supposed to do? I didn’t know what was best. Should I assume it was hormonal changes as a teenager? A rebellious phase? Should I presume you would speak to me or search for help on your own? Was I meant to pry and push? What if that only caused you to pull away from me? Before I knew it you were a man leaving my home for your own and with all the questions of what I should do I ended up doing nothing at all.” He stares at her glassy eyes, his vocal chords falling flat and blank. “Mom…” Her voice wavers. “It’s not like there’s a book on how to be a good mother, you know.” She wipes the tears of her eyes with her sleeves. “Others say their newborns keep them up at night because of how much they cry but the only thing that kept me up was when I held you in my arms and thought of all the ways I could end messing you up. Most of the times I knew I had done something wrong when it was too late and it had already affected you in some way. I learned how to be a mother by raising you and I’m so sorry, Shizuo,” she chokes on her own words. “I’m so sorry.” Silent tears roll down his cheeks. He grabs her by the arm, pulling her petite frame against his chest and broad shoulders. Her sobs shake her body, the tremors traveling to his breaking heart. “Mom, its fine. You did great and I never blamed you or dad. It’s just…the way it all turned out.” She smiles up at him, teeth hidden. “I don’t care if you don’t blame me, honey. The reality is that I knew. I gave you love but all the love in the world won’t save a starving man.”

     Her phone screen turns on before the alarm starts to ring. She wipes the tears away with her fingertips. “That’s enough sap for one day, don’t you think!” and she smiles, bright. She’s always been this way; kind and loving, a light in the darkness. She stands, squeezing Shizuo’s arm. She hums her way to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. The sound of water hitting the tiles comes on, intermingling with the muffled noise of the city outside Shizuo’s apartment. He flicks the flint wheel a couple of times for the flame to emerge, lighting up a cigarette. He inhales, moving to the window. He sits on the ledge, a leg hanging midair. He exhales, the smoke dissolving and behind it, ‘urusai’ enters her apartment with Saburo and the foreigner not far behind. Everyone has secrets; they are consistent and pungent for the citizens that live in a city; things they pretend to be and things they feign not to know anything about. Perhaps, because he understands, because he’s one of them, he doesn’t find himself all that surprised to see Saburo in the apartment of his prostitute neighbor. It’s less shocking to watch him sit in between the long legs of a foreign male, back to chest, resting his head in the crook of the stranger’s tattooed neck. They eat, they drink, they laugh, they kiss and it unearths the bittersweet rivalry he’s had with his bisexuality since high school. He didn’t mind holding a girl’s hand he just preferred to have a boy’s fingers laced with his own instead. Shizuo isn’t resentful with his heart for being vast enough to fall in love with anyone. He isn’t offended with his brain for being open enough to accept the love that anyone is capable of feeling for him.  No, the only heartbreaking and frustrating part of being bisexual is the need to hide it so the city remains unaware that one of its biggest attraction is also the punchline of a cruel joke that exploits his vulnerability and insecurities. He can already hear the shrill mocking gasps in between laughter, _can’t find a woman that is crazy enough to want you?_

It’s only outside of Ikebukuro, in the outer edge of Tokyo, that he’s ever laid in a bed with another man.

     The bathroom door creaks and in his peripheral Namiko’s bright blonde hair seems to glow amber inside the rays of the sun. In front of his eyes, the stranger kisses Saburo’s temple, letting his red mouth travel down his lean tanned skin. Shizuo places the cigarette in between his humid lips, breathing in the smoke so it can fill his lungs with resolve. He turns his neck, staring at the towel draped over Namiko’s shoulders, soaking the water droplets that fall from her damp hair. For a moment, the inside of his chest shudders as the blood inside runs cold. She’s staring at herself in the mirror. “Shizuo, you did such a wonderful job! Look at this!” She turns around to look at him with a wide smile and he feels guilty as if he was about to rub dirt on her face. “Mom?” She hums, combing her hair with her fingers. “Yes, honey?” Her voice is sweet and it almost thwarts him. He’s lived this way since he’s known; he doesn’t have to say a thing. He exhales, smoke coming out from his nose. He can swallow the cotton wool that has settled in his throat and say anything but what he intended to. “I like men,” and he stares into the brown of his mother’s eyes then, like he hasn’t done since he almost crushed his brother between the floor and the refrigerator. His heart beats erratically with both fear and the urge to laugh hysterically.

It’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud and it sounds so nice.

     There’s silence and Shizuo’s never long for the noise of the city this much before. “Say something,” he whispers. She sits on the coffee table, crossing her legs. She places her elbows on her thigh, chin propped on an open palm. “I don’t know what you want me to say?” and she’s still smiling lovingly. He crushes the cigarette on the brick siding, dropping the butt on the alley. “I don’t know. Do you hate me? Am I disowned? Are you ok with it? Indifferent?” He moves to the couch, dropping himself slack on the cushions. She draws her eyebrows together. “Honey, did you really expect me to hate you?” He shrugs. “You wouldn’t be the first mother to be homophobic.” She chuckles. “You have a big heart, what’s not to love about you? At least you’re not a murderer, though, I’d still love you then.” She opens her purse, taking out a strawberry hard candy and throwing it for him to catch. “I had an inkling, you know?” His jaw goes slack, the candy on his tongue. She smirks. “Honey, close your mouth when eating.” He rolls his eyes. “How did you know? I tried to hide it.” She drops the towel on top of the ottoman. “Don’t worry, honey. It was mother’s intuition, not anything you did specifically. There’s nothing stereotypically non-heterosexual of you.” She takes a sip of his sweet tea and she widens her eyes, placing a finger in the air. “Ah! I have to remember! Kasuka owes me a bet.” Shizuo slaps a hand to his face. “Seriously? Is this what my life has become? I hate you all,” and yeah, his own voice admitting his bisexuality was nice, but her laughter after he told her is beautiful. 

     Namiko grabs the apron that hangs from a hook on the wall, placing the neck strap over her head and knotting the waist ties on her lower back. She opens a bottom cupboard, taking out a metal bowl, letting the wooden door slam shut. “When did you figure it out?” Shizuo sits on a bar stool with a crooked smile, “high school?” She preheats the oven, humming. “That’s…a long time.” He scratches the back of his neck as she opens the refrigerator and the gust of cold does nothing to ease the pink on his cheeks. “Yeah." She brings a gallon of water and two eggs to the counter, careful they don’t roll off, as she walks off to bring the oil too. “I mean, for goodness' sake. You’re twenty-five now.” She strikes the eggs against the edge of the bowl, letting the yolk slip through the cracks before throwing the shells on the trash. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could tell me,” she says, cleaning her hands on the skirt of her apron. “It’s fine mom,” and the honesty in his voice makes her sigh. She doesn’t measure the quantity, instead, she eyes the water and oil as she pours them into the dish. “I wish you’d stop saying that. It’s obviously not.” She swings the cabinet open, taking out an instant-brownie box. “I’m your mother. What good am I if you can’t trust me with these things?” Slow and steady, she empties the mix in with the liquids, whisking it all together and he laughs. “Oh, I don’t know; keeping me alive, raising me; providing for me? Take your pick.” She glares, “Don’t get smart with me, young man,” but the tilt of her lips gives her away. Shizuo stands, grabbing the cupcake pan and blue paper molds. She pours the mixture into them, transferring the pan into the oven. She gives him the bowl and the whisk to lick; a mother-son tradition at this point.  

     She pushes herself on her tiptoes, leaning her torso over the counter as her eyes rake over the wall of pictures. She’s always had questions and with a glint of mischief covering her tone, she lets one slip. “Tell me, does it have anything to do with the sad-eyed boy and his pretty smile?” Shizuo looks in the direction of his pre-graduation picture, Sakura petals hovering over the mismatched group of friends. “I knew I liked boys when I wanted to kiss him instead of punching his face in.” She mock gasps. “Thank goodness you didn’t! You’d ruin that cute face of his.” He grimaces, creasing his forehead. “Mom, control yourself. You’re married. To dad. Remember?” She giggles, propping her jaw on her palm. “I can’t take you seriously with chocolate all over your mouth,” mumbling, she says, “you’d think I thought him better." He groans, wiping his upper lip with the back of his hand. “I better meet him someday, honey.” He lets go of the whisk abruptly, fumbling with it as it slips between his hands. “No! No! You’re a menace!” he hisses, “Hell, I think you’d actually scare him away!” She throws her head back in laughter. “Don’t be melodramatic! I’m meeting this boy! Period!” He crosses his arms over his chest, the whisk on the floor. “I refuse and you can’t make me,” he says, pouting like a spoiled brat and she shakes her head with a soft look in her eyes.

     Namiko jumps back on her feet, her shoulder-length hair bouncing tiger’s eye against the last gold of the sunset. She bends over her waist to grab the fallen whisk, throwing it into the sink with a loud, metal to metal, noise. The side of her mouth rises to the ice cream patterned oven mitts and when she holds them up for him, he shrugs. “So,” she starts, putting on the mittens with a snicker. “What was it about him?” She takes out the cupcake pan and places it on top of the stove to let the brownies cool. “Such a gossip,” he says under his breath, and she sticks out her tongue. “Don’t be shy! C’mon!” she whines, “what’s so special about him?” He blushes despite himself. “I don’t know, I mean, look at him!” and he points at the picture as if angry but she knows it’s only a defense mechanism. “That face! Mother! That face hasn’t changed in ten years! I swear he’s sixteen at most!” She rolls her eyes. “While I know you’re attracted to this boy, you don’t have to shout it, by the way, you can’t seriously think me stupid to believe that’s it. You’re not one to focus on the physical…alone.” She begins to transfer the brownies into a plastic plate. “Though, I agree. That boy is a fine piece of ass.” His eyes widen comically and she bites her tongue to avoid cackling. “Oh god, kill me,” he rubs at his face, “don’t talk about him that way! It’s weird! He’s my nice piece of ass, not yours.” She raises her eyebrows, her mouth set between an ‘o’ and a smile. “Ok! Wait! No! T-that’s not what I meant! He’s not my piece of ass! He-he’s no one’s piece of ass!” He stops, “I think?” and it’s not entirely her fault if she sniggers loudly enough for the neighbors to hear. He drops his head, digging himself deeper into the crook of his elbow. “Oh my!” she laughs, “You should see yourself! You’re so flustered it’s actually priceless!” He sighs, resting his chin over his arms. “Mom, could you like…avoid making fun of me,” and his kicked puppy face is enough to send her into a new bout of laughter, tears streaming down her cheeks.

She tries and fails to collect herself, covering her mouth with her hand and squishing her cheeks. It’s almost like she never grew up and he loves her more for it. She stops laughing, though the wide grin doesn’t slip off her face and he raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “What? I’m calm; totally calm. Which means you can talk!” He stares at her, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t think I want to talk to you…ever.” She waves both her hands in the air. “Don’t be silly, Shizuo, honey! You still haven’t told me the good stuff! Like, what’s so special about…?”

“Izaya.”

“Pretty name.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Retrace your steps.”

“Well, Shinra, you ‘member him?” She makes a so-so hand gesture. “Whatever, he’s not important. Anyway, so he presented us the first day of high school and I instantly hated Izaya’s face and personality.”

“Why?”

“Well, I was still working out the whole ‘how to shake someone’s hand without breaking every bone in their entire arm’ phase and he seemed to be in control of himself and others, he’s very good at manipulation, and I found it annoying.”

“Until you wanted to suck faces with him, of course.”

He groans. “Bury me.”

“Ok, so what changed?”

He sighs. “I stopped projecting on him.”

“Is it possible that other than jealousy you were also subconsciously in denial of anything other than being heterosexual?”

“I should talk to you more often, it would save me from a lot of trouble.”

“You should! Not only am I full of wisdom but I’m also not an emotionally constipated five-year-old.”

“Wow, mom. Great vote of confidence there.”

“What? It’s true! It only took you reaching twenty-five to tell me you're bisexual. Let me guess, you've also been pining for this boy an entire decade when you could have just told him you wanted him on your bed like a man with testicles hanging would. I could have sworn I saw them there when you were a baby."

“Harsh.”

“Though love. So, are you friends?”

“No, it also took me ten years to kind of settle a truce over our fake feud.”

“Naturally,” she deadpans.

“I don’t even know if he likes men! We somewhat talked a month ago and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Well, you’re obviously not asking the important questions if you don’t know his phone number, address, relationship status, sexuality, and kinks. At this point, I’ll meet a greying Izaya on my deathbed.”

“Can you pass me a brownie?”

She gives it to him, not missing a beat. “Is he the same one that teased you a lot?” He hums. “Is it possible that he just wanted your attention and assumed you hated him so much he didn’t even try to actually talk to you and say he didn’t want to fight anymore?

“Seriously, where have you been all my life?”

She scrunches up her nose. “Close your mouth, honey. He’ll never love you like this.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“And I’ve only been waiting for my potato of a son to start communicating and stop excelling at misunderstandings.”

He stands, picking up the entire plate of brownies and bringing it with him to the couch. 

“So, is there something you want to know about him, other than the things I previously mentioned?”

“I don’t know,” his neck turns red.

“Ah! Spill! What are you thinking about?”

He rubs his nape. “I’d like to know what his genuine laughter sounds like, what his favorite dessert is, how boring Sundays would look like if he visited and we ordered take-out.” For all the years they’ve known each other, he doesn’t know anything substantial about the informant and it irks him like nails on a chalkboard.

“What a whipped sap.”

“I’m jumping out of that window.”

“You’ll be fine. Your bones won’t know the difference between a third-floor jump and a millimeter drop.”

“Wow. The concern rolling off your body is astonishing,” he says, unexpressive.

She shrugs, picking up her purse and walking towards the hallway, slipping on her heels. “Well, I have to go. It’s going to be dark soon and I have to get home.”

He follows, leaning on the wall. “I can walk you home.”

She smiles up at him. “It’s alright, honey. I can get home just fine. Thank you for doing my hair,” she says, carding her fingers over the bleached strands.

“It’s no problem. I do it to myself all the time.”

“I love you, honey. I had lots of fun today!" She motions him to come closer and he bows so that she can reach his forehead, planting a kiss on it.

“Bye, baby! Talk soon.”

“Be safe, mom," and he watches her leave with a smile that reaches his eyes.

\----------

     The bar is empty except for the men sitting next to the front window, the lights of the passing cars creating a strobing effect on their faces. At the back, in a small booth, two women share small touches under the table. Shizuo wipes at the mahogany counter until he can see his own reflection. The small golden bell over the front door tolls, loud over the low jazz music that plays on the speakers behind him. A man with wide-set shoulders walks in, the blue collar of his dress shirt propped over the jacket of his dark suit. His hair is brown, though it appears wine under the copper-toned lights. He takes his sunglasses off and Shizuo mentally pats himself on the back for not flinching at the sight of the man’s right eye. The eye is closed and a shade of pink, different from the man’s tanned skin. There’s a scar traveling from just above the brow, straight down his eye, almost reaching his cheek. The man screams Yakuza, but it’s Izaya behind him that makes Shizuo’s heart spike into dangerous speeds. The informant turns his face to Shizuo, smirking, waving a hand like old friends seeing each other on an autumn afternoon at a carnival.

The stained glass showers Izaya’s pale skin in a myriad of warm colors; the reds turning the chestnut of his eyes into garnet stones.

     Izaya moves in front of the man, leading, his jacket dancing with the sway of his hips. He sits on a bar stool, body leaning in on the counter, a leg propped on the seat as opposed to letting it hang. He taps the chair next to him and when the man rolls his eyes at him, fond, he only grins wider. It’s not Shizuo’s business, it’s not, but who is he to Izaya? “What can I get you tonight?” he asks instead, a gruff quality to his voice he could have omitted if he had tried. Izaya looks at him then, the amber colors that reflect off the whiskey and beer bottles catching in the corner of his eyes, seeming to see straight into Shizuo’s mind, making his insides squirm. The man grabs at his golden necklace, playing with the hoops as he stares at the array of alcoholic beverages on the wall. He sighs, “I’ll have a sake.” Shizuo nods a couple of times, grabbing a glass cup and filling it up to the middle. “That’s very Japanese of you,” Izaya says, a lilt to his tone the other man doesn’t respond to. Shizuo brings the sake to the man, a coaster underneath the cup. The man takes a mouthful of his drink, throwing his head back, and he hums to the taste. Shizuo looks at Izaya, tilting his head to the side. “Tea?” Izaya says with false awkwardness. Shizuo chuckles. “You know this is a bar, right?” Behind the cup, the man’s eyebrows are raised up as he watches the interaction between the two. A hand to his chest, “Are you telling me this establishment lacks tea, Shizu-chan?” Shizuo’s face is serious though his eyes smile. “How about this-” He holds a finger up, “I make you some tea, illegally mind you, and you don’t say a thing?” Izaya moves his eyes from side to side, tilting his head up to appear professional. “Deal.” He holds his hand out and Shizuo shakes it once before going to the side, out of view. 

“Orihara-san, is Shiki still in the dark?”

“Of course. He suspects but there’s no real proof and he’s not a man to act with nothing in hand.”

“That girl really took a liking to you, huh? I know you taught her what to do but she could have blown it all off.”

Izaya shrugs. “I just told her to pretend not to know me if anyone asked, in exchange, I gave her ice cream and candy.”

Akabayashi laughs, shaking his head. “No. You took care of her for quite an extended period of time. You gave her a home, food, and you must have been nice enough for her to grow attached to you. I mean, that girl’s eyes sparkled when she stared at you.”

“You flatter me!”

“Akane-chan loves you.”

“She just met me,” and he shrugs, though the tips of his ears redden.

“You’re a riddle.”

“Is that so? Are you interested in unraveling the mystery?” Izaya’s lids drop in mock flirting but Akabayashi forces a chuckle.

“So, there’s no way Shiki can track you back to the root of it all?”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“An annoying informant.”

Izaya cackles. “Shouldn’t you worry about him knowing who leaked the information in the first place?” Izaya sneers.

“Not at all. I used Shichi’s services as you suggested. Shiki is not one to mess with.”

Izaya looks meaningfully at Akabayashi. “I know but I didn’t know you cared.”

“What will you do now?”

“Information will cost you.”

Akabayashi snorts. “Should have seen that coming.” He throws some money on the counter and stands, finishing his sake in one gulp. “Whatever you do, be careful; and if need be, off him for all I care.”

Izaya side-smiles, locking eyes with him. “Someday.” Akabayashi nods, placated by the silent promise and as he leaves, the kettle whistles. 

Shizuo places the mug of tea in front of Izaya, taking the money Akabayashi left behind. Izaya hugs the cup with his hand, heating his fingertips. “What do you do in your spare time, Shizu-chan?”

Shizuo looks at him, surprise clear on his face. “I-I read books.”

Izaya’s face brightens. “I love reading! Have you been into any books recently?”

“Damien.”

Izaya smirks. “ _If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is part of yourself. What isn_ _’t part of ourselves doesn’t disturb us._ ”

Shizuo places his hands on the counter, inclining into Izaya’s space. “ _Good that you ask – you should always ask, always have doubts._ ”

“Is that what you did with Kadota when you asked about me?”

“How did you know?”

“What don’t I know, Shizu-chan? I’m an in-for-mant. Remember?”

“Point taken.”

Izaya sips at his tea, looking out the window to the few people that walk by the street. “ _One never reaches home, she said, but where paths that have an affinity for each other intersect, the whole world looks like home, for a time._ ”

“Today I decided; I don’t want to live in this city forever. It’s not home.”

“How ironic.”

“Why?”

“You spent so many years telling me to, and I quote, “leave my city.”

Shizuo smile sheepishly. “Things change.”

“Where would you like to move to?”

“Somewhere where I can see the stars.”

Izaya hums. “That doesn’t sound so bad, Shizu-chan. I might move after you leave.”

Shizuo furrows his eyebrows. “Why?”

The song changes and Izaya recognizes it; Liebesleid. “ _I am fond of music I think because it is so amoral. Everything else is moral and I am after something that isn't. I have always found moralizing intolerable._ ”

“Sounds like you.”

Izaya places the back of his hand on his forehead, throwing his head to the side. “Shizu-chan! Why I would never!”  

They laugh together and suddenly, Shizuo’s heard Izaya’s genuine laughter and it’s soft, wild, cool, and sweet.

“This might sound like a random question, but… I’m curious,” and Shizuo refuses to look him in the face.

“Alright?” Izaya says, slowly.

“What-What’s your favorite dessert?”

Izaya laughs. “I thought it was something worse, Shizu-chan!” He sobers up. “I like cheesecake. Plain cheesecake.”

Shizuo nods and his lungs deflate a little when, “I have to go, Shizu-chan. The rest of my day awaits.”

“Izaya, it’s almost twelve in the morning.”

“Who sleeps in this city, anyway? That’s overrated.” and maybe it’s only now that Izaya has brought it up that Shizuo notices how dark the circles under his eyes really are.

“Well…alright,” he says, a little unsure as Izaya stands. “I…I mean…”

Izaya watches in amusement as Shizuo fumbles over his words. “Off with is, Shizu-chan.”

“Can I…Can I have your number?” and it’s endearing, the way Shizuo resembles a nervous high school kid asking his crush out.

Izaya’s eyes widen but he gathers himself before Shizuo takes any notice. “I’ll do you one better.” He reaches inside his pocket, taking out four cellphones.

“Do you need so many?”

“Of course.” He slides a blue one in Shizuo’s direction.

“What’s this?”

“A phone.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Then why are you asking?” Shizuo rolls his eyes.

“By the way. I wanted to thank you, again, for the job.”

Izaya waves his hand. “It was no problem.”

“Why did you? Help, I mean.”

“I have to go, Shizu-chan!” Izaya drinks the last of his tea, taking out his wallet. Shizuo brings up the palm of his hand, shaking his head. “The bar doesn’t even sell tea. There is no way I’m going to charge you for it.”

"See you around, Shizu-chan,” and his voice is smooth like velvet.

“Have a good night, Izaya,” and he stares at Izaya as he leaves, a halo of light on his hair.

The ladies in the back hold their hands only to let each other go when they reach the door, where they prepare to make-believe to be best friends as opposed to the lovers they are. The smile on their faces are fake, but the city will be none the wiser as the bell rings overhead, and they leave the bar. _‘People are afraid because they have never owned up to themselves.’_

His phone, the one Izaya gave him, buzzes.

“ _Love must not entreat,' she added, 'or demand. Love must have the strength to become certain within itself. Then it ceases merely to be attracted and begins to attract._ _”_

Shizuo laughter booms and his co-worker throws a curious look over the edge of the back door.

It’s a pleasing feeling, the butterflies that have taken residence in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve made it clear, I believe, that Shizuo is not the main character of the story. I mean, Izaya is literally the “Camellia” mentioned in the title after all, but that is not to say that Shizuo isn’t a close second, having chapters now and then dedicated specifically to him. With this in mind, I knew this chapter was his and therefore I felt it was very important to show his characterization. There is so much about him in Petiole that gives us an insight into who he is.
> 
> Namiko makes a giant appearance and I wanted it to be that way. Much of what is said of Shizuo in this chapter occurs because of Namiko's presence or influence. With that clear, I believe that it would not have worked the same with any other character that wasn't her. For example, it is the mild insistence of _his mother_ that causes him to agree to go to the doctor when he would have outright refuses stubbornly for anyone else, including Kasuka. Along the same line, the entire scene where he “comes out” which leads to the conversation of high school and consequentially Izaya happens because of Shizuo’s need to share this with her in the first place. There is no believable way that Shizuo would feel the need to come out to Shinra or Kadota and there’s no point in coming out to Celty, who, as a dullahan, has fallen in love with a different species, meaning, she gives no fucks about sexuality in the same way humans put so much importance to it.  
>  I also wanted a contrast between his trustworthy, joking, and affectionate relationship with her in comparison to Izaya’s turbulent, neglectful, and overall toxic relationship with Kyouko.
> 
> うるさい (Rom. Urusai): "noisy" or "loud"; Also used to refer to annoying people, their words or actions.
> 
> **PERSONAL NOTE**
> 
> Would you look at that? The Anatomy of a Camellia is nowhere near abandoned. In fact, this chapter is 9k+ words and how did that happen!? 
> 
> I promise that it won’t always take me around three months to update this story, but I can’t promise that like previously, it will take a week and a half either.  
> I’m grateful for the support, patience, comments, hits, subscriptions and/or bookmarks. 
> 
> I hope to continue interacting with you all via the comments! 
> 
> xo  
> -3B


	8. Leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izaya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible Triggering Content.

Shinra turns and startles, shoulders pulling taunt and tea spilling over his lab coat.

     Izaya is on his couch, the shape of his body mending into the cushions and sinking into the backrest. His eyes are closed and the curve of his mouth is devoid of any tension. His chest rises and falls with ease and it leaves Shinra breathless in a way that has nothing to do with the surprise of finding himself with sudden company. Izaya ghosted into his apartment, unseen and unheard, after picking the lock but the awed tightness in Shinra’s lungs is the cause of the amity written in the set of the informant’s jawline. He’s only like this, at peace, when he’s unconscious or half-way there. For a moment, seconds really, Shinra stares. He’s a little jealous at the lines that haven’t made their way into Izaya’s skin despite the multiple small wrinkles that have started to show by the sides of Shinra’s eyes. Maybe, Izaya has a painting of himself somewhere in his loft, behind a secret wall, decaying in his place. Izaya inhales deeply, letting his breath go slow but shaky and it tugs at the few strings Shinra still has attached to his flaccid, blacking heart. Shinra wasn’t aware back then, in middle school, when he approached Izaya with the prospect of a friend how easy it was for him to worm himself into Shinra’s skin. He hasn’t found a way to rip him from the roots, doesn’t even know when the seeds planted themselves underneath his epidermis without his knowledge, without his consent. As an alternative, he snips at the leaves every time they push and prod out of his pores, watching in morbid curiosity and cheerful panic as they bloom bright and green. “Orihara-kun! It’s been a while!” He smiles, unhinged, trying to repress the image he’s indulged in.

Izaya doesn’t jerk into alertness despite how ear-piercing Shinra’s voice rings, instead, he slowly directs his head at him, fluttering his eyes open. “I’ve been busy,” and Shinra barely recognizes the staleness in the inflections of his voice; or lack thereof.

“Have you?” Shinra slurps at his tea, the sound loud but when it would prompt a witty remark or sarcastic statement, he’s met with quiet that pains him before he can stomp on it. “Been busy, I mean.”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating, Shinra,” and it’s impossible to think Shinra misses the crackling mocking-lilt Izaya has adopted from himself, but he does.

“I’m not insinuating anything,” and Shinra’s timbre is higher than usual, a faux innocence that is child-like, buzzing with irony but Izaya doesn’t bite, doesn’t call the lie for what it is.

     The wood flooring creaks under Shinra’s weight as he strides from the kitchen to the living room. He steps over Izaya’s feet, careful not to splatter any more tea over himself or the furniture but his measured movements are rendered pointless when he plops down on the sofa, droplets of tea falling on his slacks, trickling down near his shoe. He shrugs, a dismissive sound in the back of his throat. He reaches for the controller on the coffee table and his elbow bumps against Izaya’s forearm, jostling his form but he doesn’t pester or protest. Shinra turns the television on to fill in the unfamiliar silence that travels between them. There’s a laugh track behind the jokes the host of the variety show makes and Shinra chuckles as the result of years observing his peer's response to certain situations, learning how to react and behave with each new input. In reality, he has no idea what was said, what’s so funny, he can barely discern the moving images past the reds and yellows. His focus is solely on Izaya who he can see in his peripheral. He sips at his tea, a smile behind the rim of the cup though it doesn’t reach his eyes; they rarely ever do. “My favorite tea flavor is lemon!” he says, a half-hazard attempt at useless conversational noise. “Lemon can be a vitamin c booster. It can help control glucose and can even serve as an anticancer agent. Did you know-?”

“Stop being annoying.”

Shinra nods repetitively. “I’ve heard you haven’t been giving Shizuo much grief!” He’s not interested in asking questions of how Izaya’s been or what he’s been up to. It’s easier not to care, not to be affected if he doesn’t know; if he doesn’t add himself to any part of Izaya’s life.

“Yes, well, I have more pressing matters than a monster,” and Shinra doesn’t know how to work with a half-lidded Izaya who’s missing the deranged gleam in his eyes.

“Ah! Is Shizuo no longer interesting to you? Have you finally decided to leave him alone? You know, it’s really a rather nice thing to do, so very unlike you, Orihara-kun. I never thought I’d see the day!” He yearns for banter; the insincerity that crosses between their words but Izaya isn’t charitable today.

“I didn’t come here to talk about Shizu-chan,” and Izaya’s face is impassive, the almost permanent smile creases next to his mouth smoothed over by the unforced facial expression.

Shinra’s laugh is unsteady, the sound coming straight from his vocal chords as opposed to his abdomen. “Right. Of course. What can I do for you?”

Izaya moves his arm from where it rests limply at his side to the inside of his jacket pocket, curling his fingers lazily around a bottle. He slips it out before throwing it at Shinra who fails to catch it, fails to even notice it until the plastic hits the frame of his glasses with a muted _snap_.

“Huh?” He blinks, looking down at his lap where the minuscule and feather-like weight of the bottle has materialized over his crotch. “Oh. Oh! I’ll go get you some more!” He stands, the bottle falling on the ground and rolling under the dining room table, the brown of it assimilating with the hardwood flooring. He places the teacup on the armrest, walking to his office. “So,” he starts, muffled despite leaving the door ajar. “How is it working out for you?” and he regrets the question as soon as he hears it in the sound of his own voice.

“Most days I don’t feel a thing.”

“Apathy? That’s common!” and it’s not as though he’s lying. Indifference is a frequent, if not, a universal side effect of mood stabilizers but when he follows the statement with, “I’d say having no emotions is better than being overwhelmed by them,” then, the fact that he’s an unlicensed doctor becomes palpable.

Being numb is its own brand of imperious, Izaya knows, but he doesn’t retaliate Shinra for his inaccurate guess of the human condition, instead, he hums, reaching for the teacup and bringing it to his lips, closing his eyes when the warmth of the tea washes over his throat.

“Aha!” Shinra shouts, the assertion shaped around an open-mouthed smile, and he closes the drawer of his locker with the same fervor, metal hitting against metal, and the sound of it is final, as though, now that Izaya’s hasn’t griped he has no other option but to hold his piece. Shinra trots the small distance between the office and the sofa, bouncing on the cushion with the vigor of his drop, jolting Izaya like a rag doll. He slips his hand inside the pocket of Izaya’s jacket, releasing the rattling bottle and it’s a far more intimate action than it should be. “Any other side effects?”

“Nausea, loss of appetite, uneven heartbeats, tremors, insomnia, headaches, others.”

“I see,” Shinra pushes the glasses up the bridge of his nose, “have these persisted all three months?”

“Yes.”

“Oh well! It can’t be helped!” He takes the cup back from Izaya’s list grasp, pulling with enough excessive force to almost completely spatter the rest of the tea over his face but it doesn’t deter him from drinking what little’s left from where Izaya’s lips had been, ignoring the informant’s heavy gaze.

“I better go then.”

“Are you leaving to ruin someone’s life?”

“Is there anything else I do?”

“You’re right. Why even ask?” he laughs, high and grating.

“Well then, Bye-bye Shinra! See you when I see you!”

“Don’t ever come back!” and he doesn’t mean it but he does.

     Izaya stands at his full height, looking down at Shinra for a second and there’s something there, something accusatory and aggrieved in the shadows his eyelashes cast over his hollowed cheeks before he averts his eyes. He moves over Shinra’s feet, nose upturned and lips thinned, stretched into a thin line that stiffens the fix of his jaw. The strain on his face doesn’t follow through to his body, which still holds a sway to his hips and shoulders; elegant and tenacious. The thick heels of his shoes hit the wooden floor with an intensity Shinra hasn’t heard of him the entire visit. He opens the door and allows for it to close after him, never looking back. Shinra doesn’t miss how the deadbolt clicks into place from the outside, reverberating inside the apartment.

Shinra finds that the spilled tea is sticky on his skin, the television too loud in his ears, and the couch too big, cold in its lack of human heat.

\----------

Izaya steps on the roof of Sunshine 60 and his breath gets caught; it’s been eleven years since he’s seen this view.

     The scenery isn’t quite the same. There are buildings and billboard, roads, and alleyways, that weren’t there before. He's memorized the names of all the new streets and dead ends; the people who’ve come and left. He’s seen the city multiply until it’s so big it seems infinite, as though it couldn’t possibly be tangible. He's grown up with it too but he’s remained small in comparison, a speck of stardust floating aimlessly. At the edge of the rooftop, there’s a girl merging with the image of a city Izaya doesn’t know, hasn’t seen, and can’t recognize. She stands with her arms close to her body, spine completely straight. She’s as still as a statue and only the ends of her pixie-cut sway in the breeze that smells of her; lavender and roses. Her petite frame is swallowed by a white cardigan and her skirt is the same tone of pink as the last sunrays that cling to the horizon. “Saki-chan.” She looks over her shoulder, turning her head his way and her gray eyes are almost as lackluster as concrete. “It’s Kanra,” he says, voice even.

“You lied,” but her manner is factual and monotone; there’s no heat to her words.

“I did.” He walks forward and she follows his movement with eyelids that move in slow motion. He steps up on the ledge next to her, leaning his weight on a leg, jutting his hip. His feet are a few centimeters longer than the edge, toes in midair and with the caress of a fallen leaf he could find himself dwindling, dipping, and dropping, becoming one with the sidewalk.

     He hides the tremors that travel through his hands by balling them up and hiding them inside the pockets of his jacket. He gulps the nervousness down despite a sore throat. He looks up at the sky and formless clouds pass by with silver linings where the light passes through then. It’s all abstract splotches to him and his blurred vision. Ikebukuro is a twilight shade of blue that catches high on his cheekbones. “Suicide, huh? There are more creative ways to go, you know?”

She huffs. “Straight to the point, funny man.”

     He lowers his head and he can barely discern the humans that walk, run, across the streets. From above, their ants and completely oblivious to them who stand in the threshold of death with one false step. “Let me guess. You don’t want to die, not necessarily, right? You just want it to stop.” She stares at him then, eyes wide and glassy. His profile is pretty, she thinks, fleetingly. Pinks and blues look good on him. He inhales air until his lungs hurt with the overdose of oxygen and he exhales as though there’s no reason to rush. She can see the condensation leave past his lips and the melancholy in it. “When I was twelve,” he starts, “I made a suicide pact with other kids around my age. I stood right here, back then.” It’s still clear in his brain. The night was pitch black and the bright lights of shops and passing cars mimicked static and shooting stars.

“You’re alive.”

“I didn’t jump.”

Her laughter echoes sweetly. “Cheeky.”

He side smiles. “I try.”

     Silence is shared between them. It isn’t stifling nor uncomfortable, instead, it holds a pinch of solace. She kicks at nothing but the wind and she could fall, and he could hold on to her, and she could tense up, and he could flinch, but they both remain unfazed. “Why-What made you reconsider if you were already here?” she asks, quiet as if the glass windows of the skyscrapers around her were to shatter if she raised her voice any higher.

There’s a soft all-knowing smile on his face even though the set of his eyes are curved downwards. He looks into the distance and at the skyline that can only be appreciated from 784 feet off the ground. “My sisters.”

“Sisters?”

     The sounds below are muffled by the height but she can hear his voice, the timbre of it, and with her eyes closed, his tone is clearer. “Twins actually. They were two at the time. I had left them in the living room with the lights off and the TV on and loud with some obnoxious anime. In the corner I left some snacks I was sure they could reach.” He angles his head up and regardless of the autumn afternoon he can still see the Sakura flowers that were in bloom that late spring evening. “I was ready to jump when their faces popped into my head. I thought of them calling my name when they realized I wasn’t there. I imagined them crying for me to tuck them in or bring them to my bed. My traitor of a mind thought it funny to think of them not even making it through the night,” he laughs humorlessly, “I could just see it, you know, my girls all grown up, knowing of me and what I did but not remembering my face without a picture to look at first.”

“What about your parents?”

“They don’t exist.”

“Oh.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “When I got home, they were a mess of tears and snot; ugly little creatures, really,” but the fond tilt on the corners of his mouth betrays him.

    Saki raises her arm, sleeve hiding part of her hand. She gazes at the almost translucent moon from between her fingers. “I don’t have siblings.” In her peripheral, Izaya lights up a cigarette but he doesn’t place in his mouth, instead, he waves it under his nose. “My parents exist though. They hit me,” and the fluctuation in her voice is empty as if her emotions had been extracted by the void; as if she was talking about someone else. Izaya bites his tongue as to not let the words slip. He knows it’s bizarre and he doesn’t want to undermine Saki’s pain but he wishes his parents had hit him too if that meant that they shared breakfasts in the mornings before school and fairy tale stories at night before bed. “Most of the times I don’t care anymore. The bruises on my stomach and thighs don’t upset me.” Her arm drops to her side, lifeless. “It’s a little harder to ignore when my wrists are all bruised up, or my face. It wouldn’t be so bad I think if…if…” and she chokes on a sob, pressing her hand hard over her mouth like it can stop the shudders of her shoulders or the tears that slip past her waterline; as if the sound alone could shield the sadness in her chest from Izaya. “My dad…he...he forces himself on me” She crosses her arms under her chest, hunching her back forward like a cornered animal, like that could protect from the phantom pains and the memory of what’s already been done. “My mother knows,” she sobs and inside himself, there’s a fifteen year-old-kid whispering,  _mine doesn’t_. “I have a boyfriend too,” she laughs, the humor drained out of her, “he was so nice when I met him.”

He snorts. “They all are at first.”

She sniffs and the fading pink of the sky transfers to his irises and it tastes so much like understanding that she wants to cry for him too. He takes in some of the smoke before letting the cigarette go; it’s not menthol.

“Why aren’t you reporting all of this?”

She wipes at her tears with the back of her hand. “I’m too scared and ashamed,” and her chuckles are wet, distorted, “maybe even too stupid to do anything about it.”

“You can come with, Saki-chan.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Orihara Izaya.”

She raises an eyebrow, though the sassy-attitude she tries to emulate is wilted by the tear streaks on her cheeks. “I've heard rumors about you, Orihara-san.”

He laughs. “I don’t doubt it, but you know,” he quirks an eyebrow, “there's a reason why they’re called rumors and not facts,” he singsongs, a smirk on his face.

“Touché.”

“So?”

“Can I trust you?” but she shifts closer to him, her shoulder touching his arm.

“The way I see it, you have three options.” He raises a finger. “You can go back to your life as it is.” Two fingers. “Jump.” Three fingers. “Come with me and see what magical things await behind my door. It’s your choice, Saki-chan.”

“Is it my decision what you do if I pick you?”

“That would zap the fun right out of it, Saki-chan! Don’t be a spoilsport! If you decide on me you’ll simply have to trust me with the knowledge that you know nothing at all. Think of it as a birthday present surprise! Or-or the first time you turn the crane of a Jack in a box till the end without knowing what it is,” and he grins something that appears hysterical in nature but the set of his jaw reads like relief inside of her warm blood.

     He hums, leaping off the ledge backward, his jacket rusting like a black cape behind him. He outstretches his arm towards her and she stares; it’s like he knows what she’s chosen before she’s aware of it herself; and it’s true, because with no thought she reaches out to him, coiling her fingers inside of his like sustenance.  _I was going to jump anyway,_ so she jumps into his arms instead. He presses his hand on her lower back and they walk to the door. She enters the building but he stops. He ignores the uneven heartbeats, the vile that wants to rise up his esophagus, and he turns, carving into his mind the new picture of Ikebukuro from this height.

Eleven years later, and his insides still threaten to turn to ash up on the roof of Sunshine 60.

\----------

     Saki’s house is dirty clothes in the corners and beer cans strewn across the floor but she can see her own reflection inside Izaya’s gray-colored linoleum. His silver countertops shine with the lights overhead, devoid of any fleck of dust. The glass wall with the view of Shinjuku is spotless, as though she could press her hand and be met with no resistance. The ceiling is high and expansive. It makes her breathe a lungful of air on the first try in a way she’s not able outside in the city. It smells of damp earth in the apartment the second time she inhales. She doesn’t remember the last time she expanded and contracted the inside of her chest without chocking on murky fumes until the back of her throat was left raw and her tongue black. Izaya slips off his jacket, throwing it over the back of the section. There’s something in the way he moves, the way he walks, it’s an imprudent veneer atop precision. He sits on his desk chair and rolls to his desk, crossing his legs and taking out a cellphone. Logically, she knows he lives here but the magazine-like loft doesn’t look to have ever been lived in; not really. The more she admires, spinning 360 degrees around herself, the emptier the apartment seems. It’s all modern décor and beauty but there’s nothing particularly personal except for, perhaps, the selection of names on the eclectic collection of books on display in his bookcase. Her hand hangs midcourse before she jerks it back into her body, cradling her arm over her chest. She doesn’t dare exhale on anything if only to avoid the stain of her imprinting itself on the immaculate surfaces. She imagines her touch putrefies wood, oxidizes metal; it corrupts and it’s the opposite of what Izaya’s hands have done here.

     She whips her head in Izaya’s direction but he’s turning his monitor on, computer humming to life and when he chances a look at her, the white of his eyes are alight with amusement. He waves a hand, “carry on,” and her shoulders drop, the tension easing down her back until it evaporates. He concentrates on the monitor, fire typing without needing to look at the keys and it’s not an uncommon skill but Saki never took the time to picture what Izaya’s face could look like, didn’t think of personality traits or skillsets he could have. He was a faceless indestructible force in Ikebukuro that ran rampant and wild, an immortal boogeyman in the night. He’s a stranger whose name is easy to distort the sound of with the current of rumors that washes up in the forums each second of every minute. Shame grapples to take hold of her stomach. It’s only now that he’s human, now that she’s felt the softness of his skin and heard the fluctuations in his voice. She stares back at the bookcase, fluttering her lashes a couple of times. She furrows her eyebrows, fingertips reaching for a spine. She caresses the letters trying to read the text. She recognizes the words, knows the basics of the story; Le Fantôme de l'Opéra.

“Can you understand this, Orihara-san?”

Izaya looks up over his eyelashes at her before his eyes shift to where her pale pink nails rest, an eyebrow quirking. “It would be rather curious of me to have books I couldn’t read, wouldn’t it?” he cackles, she huffs, “Yes, Saki-chan.” He takes hold of his cellphone seeming to be messaging someone.

“That’s incredible,” she didn’t think Izaya would be bilingual, then again, he didn’t’ truly exist for her, until today. “How many languages do you know?” For a moment, she regrets asking questions.  _How rude of me_ , she thinks, poking and prodding, but he doesn’t reproach her, doesn’t snap.

"Japanese. Chinese. Russian. English. French. A little Spanish.”

She gapes at him. “Wow! A polyglot, Orihara-san? That’s...unheard of among the people I’ve ever met.”

The cellphone dings and he writes again. She slips the book out onto her palm, feeling the hardcover under her hands.

“Where did you find this copy?”

He places both elbows on the desk, resting his chin atop the back of his intertwined hands, looking at the book a little like it’s a ghost and a little like it offends him. “I was fourteen at the time. It was a gift from a man I knew.”

She leans her head sideways. “Isn’t that kind of strange?”

He almost frowns but his face smooths over before it settles into any hard lines. “Not coming from him,” and there's something there.

Her mouth scrunches up and she pushes the book back into its spot, pulling her hand away as though it burns. “Oh,” and it’s impressive how much disgust she etches into that one sound as she wipes her hands on her skirt.

She throws one last look at the book with eyebrows drawn low and she wonders why he kept it all.

     Her ballerina-like shoes scuff against the flooring with every step she takes away from the bookcase and towards him. She hides her hands behind her back, bowing to lower her eyes to his level, chin almost resting on top of his monitor but he doesn’t look up from the screen. There’s a teasing smile on her face and fake innocence on her lids. “I chose you, Orihara-san,” he hums, charmed by the flirtatious act, “I’m here, in your home, like you wanted me,” she brings her hand on the top of his computer, her nails tapping on the metal, “does that, maybe, mean that I get to know what it all means for me now?”

He chuckles and she huffs, rolling her eyes. "Don't worry your little pretty head over it, Saki-chan. We made a deal that's all you get to know."

     She spins around, reaching Namie’s desk and holding on to the edge, pushing herself up with her arms to sit on the surface. Her feet hit the chair and he looks at her then, lifting an eyebrow, when the leather chair scrapes on the floor. She swings her legs back and forth, fixing her gaze out the glass and she watches enthralled inside the apartment of a neighboring building. There’s a family eating a meal at the dining table with warm lights over their heads. There’s laughter spilling from their mouth, uncontrollable and gleeful, but she can’t hear, can’t be part of it. “Saving me won’t stop the rise in suicides,” she says, somber and resigned; delicate.

     Izaya cackles and the sound of it is so sudden, resonating harshly against the empty walls, that it startles her. Her sclera swallows her irises as she stares at him. “Please refrain from thinking me fatuous, Saki-chan! I may be many things, I’m sure, but I’m not foolish,” he smirks, eyes narrowing, “The spike in suicides occurred in consequence of the creation of that little website you were part of.” She lowers her gaze in shame, pulling the hem of her shirt. “I took it down before meeting with you,” and his voice has taken an airy quality, the smug smile evident in the tone. There’s a moment of silence where she stares and he notes that the grey in her eyes seems livelier, flickering with a silver glow in the corner of them that wasn’t there before.

“Maybe not all the rumors are true but some are, Orihara-san,” she says in awe.

He shrugs. “I said they were called rumors but I never acknowledged or denied any claims. There’s usually some truth to most lies, isn’t there?”

“You sure are something,” she says and when he grins at her, teeth white and dazzling like everything else he owns, smile lines on both sides of his mouth, the sight is her secret to keep.

     The lock on the front door clicks open and the door doesn’t creak, doesn’t make a sound except for the soft  _bang_  as it closes again. Saki’s heart travels to the back of her neck, skipping beats inside of her eardrum. She wasn’t expecting company and in a moment, she can see herself lying on the coffee table, limbs hanging over the edges. She can imagine her eyes open and unseeing, blood dripping from the spaces between her teeth, staining her clothes. Saki looks at Izaya with questions shifting in the middle of her brows but he's staring straight ahead, his smile turning into a sneer. He stands, walking around his desk with both arms spread out. "Namie! My dear! Where have you been?"

Keys rattle, metal against metal. Heels hit on the linoleum with a calm and patient rhythm. "Have you been talking to yourself again?" Namie's voice is deeper than her own, smoother and dull.

He sighs in mock vexation and it unravels the knots around Saki's stomach. "Namie, please, this is not the time for your personality." He looks over his shoulder, winking at Saki. "I have a visitor!"

Namie emerges from the hallways and stops, face impassive but beautiful. She points at Saki, eyes trained at Izaya. "Why is that on my desk?"

Saki blushes and Izaya gasps, bringing a hand over his grinning mouth. "Namie, don't be rude! You'll give me a bad reputation!" he  _tsks_.

“It can’t possibly be worse than it already is,” she deadpans, dropping her purse on the floor and slipping it under her desk with the tip of her shoe.

"Don't underestimate the imagination of humans," he grumbles, leaning on the table. "I read once that I was a vampire. A vampire! Can you believe that Saki-chan?"

She giggles.

"Honestly," Namie's bored tone starts, "a vampire might be the most accurate thing I've heard about you as of yet." Izaya cackles and Namie rolls her eyes. "Good luck with that," she starts, looking at Saki for the first time, "this man is a nuisance."

“I like him,” she says, voice low, sinking under hesitance and shyness.

Namie crosses her arms. “Is that right? Would you leave your life in his hands to do as he pleases with it?” and Izaya stares at the front door, a side-smile on his face as he waits for Saki’s answer.

“I-I” Saki looks down, twisting and turning her fingers together over her lap.

“Well?” Namie asks, irritated and impatient.

Saki straightens her spine, looking at the brown in Namie’s eyes. “I trust him,” and there’s determination in the way her eyebrows square, almost reaching down her lids.

Namie’s calculating gaze falls on Saki’s body as it begins to recoil in on itself. She rakes her eyes from Saki’s head to her toes and back again. “Good. Now, get your ass off my desk.”

Saki scurries to jump off, tripping over her own feet and Izaya claps his hands. “Wonderful! Now, I have a job for you, Namie!”

“Great. Can’t wait. This is what I live for,” she drones.

“Fantastic! Love the enthusiasm! Take Saki-chan to the beauty salon, will you?”

“What?” Saki screeches.

“Is that a suggestion I can say no to or a demand?”

“Orihar-”

“I would call it a humble request that equals to no pay if you decline.”

“Wait-I-”

“Of course,” Namie sighs.

“Orihara-san-”

“Your charcoal hair is very pretty, Saki-chan, truly, but I think a change would be nice. The mark of a fresh start, don’t you think?”

“I-I’d love to but I don’t have the money for that kind of thing.”

Izaya chuckles. “Oh, darling, I’m paying.”

“N-no! Orihara-san, I can’t accept that!”

“I’m not getting paid if you don’t go. I suggest you take your ass out that door this instant and prepare yourself for a make-over straight out of Orihara Izaya's bank account.”

Izaya chuckles watching Saki’s short hair fall in between his fingers. “What about brown? It’s a symbol of rebellion.” he hums. "Yes. Namie, sweetheart, take her to the salon," and Saki knows there's finality in the serenity of his timbre.

“Let’s go, brat.” Namie scoffs, grabbing Saki by the wrist and pulling her out of the apartment with rushed steps.

     The door slips shut and Izaya finds himself standing in a box; it’s lovely, it’s flawless, and he can’t take a gulp of oxygen big enough to fill his lungs. There’s a way out, he knows, but he’d only find himself inside a much bigger container enclosed between cement with cubicles made of metal and stalls with few and far trees in between. The metropolis is constricting like the squeezing, crushing, and grinding of his ribs. He breathes, rapid and ragged, and it repeats around him and back into his eardrums. Outside the loft, where he imagines Shinjuku is a self-contained globe, it all appears to be a reflection in a rippling lake; fuzzy and indistinguishable. He shuts his eyes tight but his vision doesn’t change, doesn’t clear, instead, the world continues to spin, twisting and turning until his pupil can barely discern light perception. He grabs at his phone, knuckles white around it, and with trembling legs and rigid muscles he walks. The one step down his living room is as though he’s walking on a tightrope on Sunshine 60. He makes it to the couch, feeling the material under his fingertips more than recognizing the piece of furniture with his sight. He lets himself drop down with little coordination, regretting it when his brain hits at his cranium, the pain pounding behind his eye sockets. He presses the palm of his hand against his temple as though the pressure could will the pain away by force. He stares at the ceiling where he doesn’t have to blink a couple of times to focus on the small details when it’s all the same color and texture he can barely make out anyway. It hasn’t rained in days and that’s something to worry about; it’s been a little over a month and Shiki hasn’t called.

The phone vibrates and he watches as  _Kyouko_  appears in an exceptionally ugly font on the screen. He hopes she’s worried, wondering why her baby isn’t answering. The tone stops only to ring a couple of seconds later. He hopes she forgets she ever gave birth to him and never calls again.

The ringtone fades sinking to the back of his head with his eyes, arms going limp, phone falling with a soft thud over the carpet.

\----------

Izaya’s hearing comes into focus slowly and then all at once.

     It’s like floating without sinking deeper into the darkness at the bottom nor rising to the surface where the light resides and then it’s like hitting water under him, cold and biting on his skin, entering his nose and traveling down into his lungs at the same time as he emerges, struggling to gulp air as though it was running extinct. Izaya opens his eyes and every sound becomes clearer, pummeling into his brain as if each pitch was fighting for dominance. It’s overwhelming as much as it is painful, prickling at the base of his head. The fan in his computer whirs, the needles in the clock on the corner tick-tock, and the car horns out on the street hunk.

Namie taps her foot from that one step she has over him, narrowing her eyes and staring him down. “The boyfriend’s been arrested.”

     He nods stiffly, groaning rather than the hum he had tried to push out his throat. He squints his eyes, fluttering them a couple of times before noticing Saki hovering next to him. He grunts, pushing himself into a sitting position with the little strength left on his forearm. He waves at her to come closer and she kneels in between his legs. He moves his hand forward, catching strands of her chestnut hair as it highlights honey with the light bulbs in the loft. “Pretty,” he says.

Her lips curl ever so slightly at the compliment, the apple of her cheeks adopting a light hue of red. “Thank you, Orihara-san.”

There’s a knock on the door and Izaya schools his expression, pulling at his lips until its set on a grin, hands clasped together. “Ah! I’m confident you won’t mind too terribly.” He stands, ignoring the black ink spots pirouetting inside of his pupils. “I do hope you won’t be severely disappointed, Saki-chan!” He moves past her, brushing shoulders with Namie, who doesn’t miss his lack of coordination.

He swings the door open and there’s a woman leaning on the frame, smirking. She raises an eyebrow as his eyes lower to her chest. Underneath her thin white shirt, there's’ a purple brassiere, a disparity to the black-pant suit. “Orihara-san,” she drags the vowels, a sickly sweet undertone to her voice.

“Yukari-chan! How nice to see you! How are you?”

She laughs, haughty. “I’m doing quite alright, actually. It’s been a while, yeah?” She stares at his collarbones.

“What can I help you with?”

She snaps her gaze to his knowing sneer and unabashed, she smiles back, a flirtatious gleam in the set of her mouth before sighing, something resembling a spoiled child. “This,” and her tone turns bored, “is Mikajima-san.” She points behind herself to a woman with big grey eyes, disheveled hair, and a half-tucked blouse. “We’re here for Mikajima-chan.”

The lady bows.

“Ah! Yes! Come, come!” He steps aside, welcoming Mikajima who enters first, eager to see Saki.

Yukari lags behind, hiding her professional persona, and placing her hand on Izaya’s chest, oblivious to his flinching. She bites her lip, smile in place. “What a shame, really,” she says, “so damn pretty,” and she nears, nose almost touching his.

He barks a laugh. “Control yourself, you fiend.”

She shrugs, the deviant delight never leaving the sides of her eyes. “Sue me, hot stuff.” She wiggles her eyebrows, walking away with an exaggerated sway to her hips.

He shuts the door, rolling his eyes and shaking his head with hardly contained mirth. “Saki-chan!” he singsongs, “There’s someone here for you!”

Saki turns around and her eyes flare, jaw falling lazily. “Auntie?” The woman nods, tears rolling down her face. “Auntie!” Saki runs, tackling her aunt’s abdomen and pushing the petite woman a few inches back with the force of impact. She attaches herself to her aunt, hugging tight as if to expel the air out of her.

“Look at your hair!” the woman says, wet and chocked, holding Saki’s face between her soft hands. “So beautiful! My sweet angel.” She drops a kiss on the crown of Saki's head.

“I-I don’t understand. What are you doing here?”

The woman caresses Saki’s cheek with the pad of her thumbs. “Yukari-san called me.”

Saki looks at Yukari then, who throws a folder on the dining table with the flick of her wrist. She sits on the nearest chair, crossing her legs, one atop the other. “Good afternoon, Saki-chan. As your aunt has already stated, I’m Yukari, your caseworker.”

“Caseworker?”

“I’m with social services.”

Izaya stands behind Yukari, who leans on the back of the chair, her head almost resting on his chest. “Yukari-chan and I hold a business relationship. You can say I’m a private detective of sorts. I informed her of the situation so she could open your case.”

Yukari huffs, smiling arrogantly. “An incredible feat, if you ask me. I didn’t actually do anything. The case file was prepared in advance and sent to me via e-mail.”

He shrugs. “You see, Saki-chan, as of now, your parents have been detained by the authorities and on a different note, unrelated to Yukari-chan’s line of work, your boyfriend has been arrested for possession of drugs.”

Yukari brings her fingers to her face, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, lavender nail polish glittering with the action. “Your aunt will be a temporary caretaker until permanent custody is granted.”

Saki gasps. “O-Orihara-san? Is this all true?” and through the hesitance, there’s an edge of happiness threatening to spill over her waterline.

“I hope you’re not severely disappointed,” he smiles, smug.

"Thank you so much, Orihara-san," she strangles out.

"It was nothing. I was bored and needed something to do.”

"Well,” Yukari interrupts, “you may leave as soon as right now, Mikajima-san. I will contact you.”

The woman drapes her arm over Saki’s shoulder, pulling her flush onto her side. “Alright. We’ll be heading home now, right sweetie?”

     Saki nods, chest tight with the prospect of a home. She ambles past Izaya first, fondness clinging to the shadows her eyelashes cast under her eyes. She waves him goodbye, an innocent excited smile on her face. She strides down the hallway, hurrying with a bounce to her steps that wasn’t there before. The woman, Mikajima, watches her go before stopping in front of Izaya and averting her eyes to look into his. “I’m eternally grateful for all you’ve done. I will never be able to properly put into words nor give you anything worthy of what you’ve given me. I can only hope with all my heart that karma is able to repay you, if not in this, then in the next life,” and there’s genuine gratitude etched and carved into every consonant. She bows low, hands over her chest, and his mouth goes dry, lungs winded. He waves his hand in dismissal, ignoring the quivering of his wrists. He’s a little unsure of what to do with the heavy filling settling behind his ribs, and so, he stares as she nods to herself and leaves, turning at a corner.

Yukari stops next to him, leaning her back on the wall outside his loft, one leg propped. She whistles, long and vulgar. “Well, well, baby boy, I think someone has fallen for your charms, yet again.”

He pretends his chest isn’t overcome with something he doesn’t know where to store or where to place. It’s unfamiliar and warm, firing up in his chest and it  _hurts_. Instead, he molds into Yukari’s energy, her personality. “Stop projecting, Yukari-chan,” he chides, a smirk on his face.

She throws her head back in laughter, lifting both hands in a show of surrender. “Fine. I’ve been caught.” Her voice lowers to a purr, “It’s just, you’re so damn sexy.”

“Tell me, I’m curious, did I catch you at an unfortunate moment?”

Yukari cocks her head to the side. “What do you mean?" but the silent laughter wracking at her shoulders erases the innocent act she tries to play at. He trails his sight down her chest where she might as well not be wearing a shirt over the neon purple bra. She laughs. “Well, now that you ask, yes, as a matter of fact. I was having a jolly good time with that guy you sent me, way back when, before you roped me into this case.”

“Saburou?”

“Yes! That’s the one, hot stuff. He’s become somethin’ of a regular. Poor fucker. Hope he doesn’t fall in love.”

“It might be too late.”

“Oh, well, it can’t be helped. As long he knows where he stands I don’t give a fuck. He can love me all he wants. It’s good for me, it gives me a big head,” she laughs, hitting her thigh. 

“I heard you lived near the monster, is that true?”

“Hm? Ah! That Heiwajima mother fucker you mean?” he nods. "Turned me down! The son of a bitch, can you believe it?” She takes out a spliff out of the pocket of her jacket, lighting it up.

“Actually, I can.”

Yukari makes a noise in the back of her throat. “Excuse me, Izaya-san, but I have my moments.”

“I don’t doubt it, sweetheart.”

She sighs. “You shouldn't flirt with me, dream boy. It’s not good for my heart, I’ll fall in love.”

“As if you were capable.”

She cackles. “Whatever. I have to go. I left that Saburo guy in my apartment.”

“Oh,” he sneers, “be careful there, Yukari-chan. So trusting. Maybe he’s not the one in love.”

“Ha! Who the fuck knows?” she shrugs, “Maybe I’m the goner and he’s the one stringing me along, right?” she says it as though it wasn’t emotionally scarring to be used, as though it was a regular part of her life; like the prostitute she is, used to broken promises and pretty lies. “I’m heading out, gonna make it up to him.”

“Give me a ride?”

“Where?”

“Take me to your building, I’ll go from there.”

“Are you letting me pay to sleep with you?” She smirks.

He mock gasps, “You can’t afford me! What type of cheap whore you take me for?”

“Ah! One can dream!”

Izaya walks inside the apartment, Yukari’s foot holding the door ajar. He takes the coat off the back of the sectional, slipping the sleeves over his arms, feeling the heaviness of the fur-trim on his shoulders. "I'll be taking my leave too, Namie."

"Whatever."

"Don't wait up!"

"Go die."

"I'll see what I can do about that!" He slips through the small gap between the door and the frame.

“Nice seeing you again, Namie darling! You’re are as lovely and as kind as ever,” she lets the door close behind her, and Namie can hear Yukari’s laughter, shrill and harsh, straight from her diaphragm.

\----------

It’s bizarre; Ikebukuro at night is quiet even though it thrums with pent-up energy that threatens to burst at the seams.

     Shizuo shakes and twists his keys around his fingers, the sound louder than it would ever be perceived at midday when it would be drowned by the shouted conversations and rumbling of car engines. His clavicle is set forward with the way his shoulder blades hunch in over themselves, exhaustion and relieve setting light on his nape. It’s the end of September, the last day in fact, and the air has already started to shift, cold and biting on the exposed chest that peaks from in between the three buttons he's undone. The wind ruffles the unbuttoned vest and the loose bowtie around the collar of his shirt. Hand on the pocket of his dress pants, the skin chills with the metal cigarette case but he doesn’t feel the need to place one in between his teeth, doesn’t feel the need to indulge in nicotine when there’s no anger in the set of his mouth, no frustration in the angle of his brows; there’s no strain to the veins inside his neck.

     He stands frozen in front of his building watching the old lady from the second-floor opening and closing her mailbox in the lobby. His heart races when he doesn’t detect a hint of vanilla or pumpkin spice, instead, Sakura flowers flourish inside of his lung with the irresistible strong smell of them that reaches his nose. He can’t swallow without his stomach growing hot with anise he can taste on his tongue. The door of the neighboring building creaks and screeches, the metal hinges rusted by the lack of maintenance over the years. It protests the act of being pushed and pulled, booming around the block. Shizuo is sure he could hear it in the confines of his apartment, even with the windows closed. He looks to his side and Izaya’s there, face upturned, navy blue cast over the profile of his face. “Izaya-kun?”

Izaya’s irises move first, reaching the corner of his eyes, appearing purple in color, before his body follows, swift and refined, one leg in front of the other, a little like a dance step. “Shizu-chan! Did you just get out of the bar?”

“Y-yeah. W-what are you doing in this part of town, this late?”

“Don’t sound so suspicious Shizu-chan! I was accompanying my friend, Yukari-chan, home! Really, you have no trust in me! That’s no good!” He tuts, a smile on his lips.

“Yukari?”

“You’re neighbor?” Shizuo slants his head sideways. “The prostitute, Shizu-chan,” he whispers, pretending to reproach him.

“Oh,” and something green clings to Shizuo’s liver. “She’s your friend?” He remembers her now.

“I wouldn’t call her my friend exactly. A close acquaintance? Business associates, now and then?”

“Business?” and Shizuo doesn’t mean for it to sound so dejected.

“Yes. She’s a social worker too.”

“Social worker,” he repeats, slow as if testing the words. “I-I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t?”

“So-I mean-well-have you…?”

Teeth show behind Izaya’s outstretched lips. “Have I what, Shizu-chan?” and it comes out as a purr.

“You know…she’s a…you’re-you guys…”

Izaya laughs outright. “I’m strictly homosexual, Shizu-chan.”

“Oh.”

“Eloquent as ever, I see,” he chuckles, “well?” He rotates his wrist, motioning for Shizuo.

“What?”

“Information for information. I’d like something of equal value, mind you!”

“Oh, sure. I’m bi.”

“Is that so?"

“Hey, um, you don’t have to or anything but would you want to get some ice cream?"

“Ice cream? Now?” Shizuo nods. “What about frozen yogurt, instead?”

“Great. I know a place,” and Shizuo’s smile is more blinding than the city lights.

\----------

The park is surreal when it’s around one in the morning, as though they’re not in Ikebukuro anymore.

     The fountain is on and the water cascades, rippling as it falls, glowing with the lights that hit. Shizuo and Izaya sit next to each other on a bench in contented silence listening to the few faraway cars that drive down the highway and the rustling of leaves when the early morning wind passes through them. Izaya hums around the last spoonful of his lilac yogurt; taro root flavored. It’s perfect for him, he thinks. It’s not too sweet, not too salty, and it has nothing bitter to it. It’s light on his taste buds, velvety inside his esophagus, and filling yet weightless in his stomach. He’s zipped his jacket, skin too thin to protect his bones from chilling. Side by side, Shizuo’s body heat radiates red and heartening, as though he doesn’t feel the cold in the same way Izaya does. Perhaps, it’s not far from the truth. Shizuo’s made of muscle where the little fat Izaya used to have has evaporated with the food he doesn’t consume. He’s pleasantly surprised he isn’t nauseous, in fact, he’s left craving more when he looks down at the empty cup. He stands, halting in front of Shizuo who remains seated. He places a hand over Shizuo’s shoulder, holding his precarious balance with the stability in Shizuo’s frame, finding comfort in his strength. He rests his other palm over the hand Shizuo has around the waffle cone. He locks eyes with Shizuo, reading into his reactions as he tips forward, biting at the yogurt, strawberry, and their noses touch, bumping gently. Shizuo smells of pine trees, menthol, and whiskey. Izaya leans back, fingers at the sides of his mouth. He giggles like a giddy yet shy kid and Shizuo doesn’t know how the butterflies caged inside his ribs are still contained.

“It’s good, Shizu-chan. I might have to buy that one next time.”

“…next time?” Shizuo is still in a haze and he thinks, if he dies of a heart attack he’s completely in his right to blame the informant.

“Or, yeah, when I go alone, I guess,” his smile dims.

Shizuo can all but hear part of his heart splintering, sobering, before, “I’m up for getting yogurt again.”

Izaya bites his lip, eyes glittering. “Yeah?” He pulls the fur trim closer to his neck. “Ok. That would be nice.” He hides his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Well, I better go,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of Shinjuku.

“Do you have to?” and it’s not his fault if his words are tinted grey-blue.

“It’s late, Shizu-chan. I have a long way back."

Shizuo licks at his yogurt before outstretching his arm. “Here, for the road,” and the act is not entirely brought upon by affection. Izaya's always been slim but the bones on his wrist are much too pronounced to be anything but skinny.

Izaya doesn’t hesitate in accepting the cone, spinning around and looking over his shoulder, waving with a smile on his face. Gold and copper leaves fall around him and _has he always been this beautiful?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SYMBOLISM:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Did you catch that Dorian Gray reference?  
>    
> Saki smells of -  
> Lavender: Femininity, all grown up, silence, devotion, grace, and calmness.  
> Roses(In General): Promise, hope, and new beginnings. The thorns represent defense, loss, and thoughtlessness.
> 
> If it was unclear, Shiki gave Izaya "The Phantom of the Opera."
> 
> If it wasn't made clear, Yukari is 'urusai,' Shizuo's neighbor. She is a social worker and moonlights as a prostitute and if you get the impression that she might be a little of a nymphomaniac, then you wouldn't be completely wrong. Her name means affinity and the separate parts mean: (Yu) Reason. Cause. (Ka) Fragrance (Ri) Village. 
> 
> Also, I'm pretty certain this is goodbye for Yukari!
> 
>  **ATTENTION:**  
>  1\. Please remember to always read the beginning notes. Don't ignore them or bypass them as there is where I write if that particular chapter may be considered a possible trigger.  
> 2\. Remember that with each new chapter I publish I update the tags. When you are about to read the new chapters, please, read the tags first just in case there is anything new that you should be weary of or prepare yourself for.  
> 3\. Be safe!! <3
> 
>  **QUESTIONS**  
>  -Would you consider Shiki a major character?  
> -Tell me where you think this story is headed to? I'm curious to know what my readers believe they foresee!
> 
> xo  
> 3B


	9. Veins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izaya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible Triggering Warning.

Izaya never thought to descend a staircase was a complicated matter.

     It’s late in the morning and the rays of the sun saturate the burgundy of the stairs into scarlet, leaving them devoid of harsh lines and shadows. From the top, looking down, he can’t find confidence in his footing when he can’t discern where one step ends and the other begins, vision rippling sporadically; muddling, spotting, and tunneling. It’s not a byzantine action, shouldn’t be, for someone with coordination; someone whose knees don’t threaten to fold in under themselves; someone whose autopilot response isn’t to hold on to the railing with a white-knuckle grip, all strength in their body transferring to their fist. There was a time when taking the stairs was a thoughtless and automatic part of his day, right after waking up, brushing his teeth, and pulling up his jeans. In fact, for eighteen years, his lungs never protested the back and forth on the stairway made of oak that faces the front door of his childhood home and for six years his thighs had never trembled with the ups and downs of the loft’s metal stairs, not until now. “I want to die,” he slurs. It’s an offhanded comment but there’s a level of truth to the words that have nothing to do with the flight of stairs that separates him on the second floor from the first.

“It’s the medication,” Namie says, with the same blasé nature she says most things.

“You say that all the time.”

“I wouldn’t need to ‘say that all the time,’” and she makes as though to mock his voice but she doesn't make it half-way through before dropping to her own droning tone, “If you would listen to me.”

“And what do you advise me to do then, oh, wise one?” he jeers.

“I would say to throw the damn Prozac’s down the toilet but I’d be wasting my saliva on you.” She pushes her hair off her chest, crossing her arms over her abdomen.

“Would it be less of a waste if it was running down your little brother’s throat?” He grins, lifting a brow.

She scowls. “Don’t be disgusting.” She sits on her desk chair. “And anyway, there are more pressing matters on hand.”

“Like?”

She opens a folder, the back of her head to him. “I heard you’ve been getting cozy with that monster of yours.”

“My, my,” and he leans his weight forward on the rail, arms catching on the metal to brace himself. “Perhaps the incestuous wench should be the informant instead."

She shrugs. “I wonder,” she sing-songs feebly, “if he knows that you’re mentally unstable or” and she pauses, flipping a page deliberately unhurried, “that you’ve lost the ability to come down those stairs you’ve been staring at all morning,” and she smiles, looking over her shoulder.

“Does Seiji know you want to bed him?”

She raises her hands in a show of surrender. “No, but does that monster of yours know he can finally kill you like the parasite you are now that you can’t run away without panting and tripping over your own two feet?”

“Your benevolence astonishes me, truly,” he says, straight-faced.

“I’m a gift to the world,” she deadpans.

“That you are. Now, would you help me down?” and he holds his hand mid-air, palm up.

     There’s static noise inside her head as the words string together to register as the request for assistance they are. She sighs, loud and overly dramatic, pushing herself up, chair scraping against the floor. “I don’t get paid enough for this,” but she’s moving, walking with a little more haste than her usual leisurely pace. She takes two steps at a time with an impassive expression that is a conscious effort against the smile lines that want to wrinkle the sides of her mouth. She’s showing off her agility in the face of a man that used to parkour like he had learned how to jump from rooftops before crawling. She grabs his arm, moving him sideways to stand between him and the rail, placing a hand over it with slack fingers, caressing the metal as opposed to clutching at it with the same urgency he does. She doesn’t look down when she descends, instead, her eyes are fixed to the buildings across the street. On the other hand, Izaya keeps eyes trained under him, sensing the ground beneath his toes before letting the sole of his foot lay flat. She exhales, irritated at having to stop every few steps but she doesn’t complain, not when he shakes under her hold, and when he dithers, she grips harder as if to leave the imprint in the shape of her hand on his arm.

     Izaya’s bare feet touch the landing, cold rushing from the tip of his toes to the back of his skull. He sighs until there’s no oxygen in his lungs to breathe again, refilling his lungs into full capacity till it aches against his breastbone. The tension in his lips release, easing the line of his mouth into serenity, and the strain in the crinkles of his eyes disappear, eyebrows smoothing over and dropping to their natural position. Namie’s hand is gentle, caressing even, as it lowers from behind his elbow to curl around his wrist. She digs her nails to his skin as it to draw blood from his veins and his eyes snap open. She lashes his arm away with a jolt, throwing him off balance to hold himself upright with the support of his forearm on the wall. “What was  _that_ , Namie?” He says, his voice a few octaves lower.

     Her eyes narrow, livid, tangerine and orange swirling in the brown of them. She looks so much like Kyouko then, annoyed and aggravated, dissatisfied, and infuriated, but the emotions displayed on her face are more visceral than anything that has ever crossed Kyouko’s features, more than her grey-toned cubicle heart could ever comprehend. “I’m sick of this!” she shouts like she’s never done before, in a way he knows Kyouko would never allow herself to. She pushes him by the chest, his back straightening as his spine presses against the wall. She shoves him harder and his ankles hit the frame of the linoleum as her fingers jab at him, her brows furrowing with the twinge of pain. “We’re fixing this now,” and though her voice is blank, the shape of her lips, the set of her shoulders, and the flaring of her nose speak of presumptuous rage. She huffs, spinning on her heels and her hair catches on his tongue, leaving a bitter chemical taste behind as she treads up the stairs, the sole of her shoes pounding against the steps.

     “Namie,” he says, almost setting is up as a question but not quite reaching the intonation to make it so. She opens the door to his room as though to rip it from the frame, the wood hitting against the dresser and the bang of it is loud like a gunshot being fired in the enclosed place of his loft. He flinches, snapping, “ _Namie_.” She whips the drawer out of his nightstand with force, throwing it behind her and one of its panels breaks off, knocking the corner of his bed, all contents rattling and scattering across the room. He shouts, “Namie!” but she doesn’t respond, doesn’t so much as bat an eye to the sound of his voice. He places a foot on the first step but slips, catching himself with a hand on the edge and the other clinging to the rail. His knees hit the floor and he gasps a groan as the electrical shocks course inside of his legs and up his hips but he pushes himself up, over-exertion and adrenaline barely keeping up with his weight. He looks up to her hurriedly running down the stairs. “Namie, what’s the meaning of all this?” but she simply bumps shoulder with his when she lands and he doesn’t voice the pain, doesn’t allow his expression to change other than the grinding of his teeth that she doesn’t notice.

“I won’t stand for this anymore, Izaya.”

“What are you-” and his eyes drop to her hands, white between her fingers.

     She turns the faucet on, opening the cap of the bottle and pouring all of the pills down the drain as she stares at him. For a moment, as his brows meet and his jaw slacks, she pities him, sympathizes even, but everything morphs, taking hold of her tongue to project. “If you wanted to die so badly you should have drunk them all in one go, in fact, you should have slit your wrists to end your misery and my own,” she spits, “it’s not like anyone would miss your pathetic existence anyway. Did you think your parents would care now that your life is falling apart? Do you think they would have the decency to show up with tears in their eyes to the funeral of their little faggot? Maybe they wouldn’t show up at all, oh, but your sisters would, wouldn’t they? They’d laugh and dance on top of your corpse.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, and that makes her squeeze what’s little is left of his heart. “Don’t get me started on Shizuo. He can’t wait to get rid of you, to rip you into shreds. Did you actually think he could ever want you? You’re not even good enough for a mons-” and she’s shocked into silence, a gasp escaping her lips and her eyes widen, growing hot behind her waterline. The blood vessels underneath her skin break under the pressure of the back of his hand, the blow of his knuckles heavy on her cheekbone.

“You’re fired,” and his voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t so much as have a trace of human emotion to it.

She crossed the line and she doesn’t know where she left it to try and reverse the damage done. “I-”

“No. Get out of my house,” and his tone isn’t deafening but she cringes nonetheless.

“I’ll-I'll make some tea before I go."

“Make it the best fucking tea I’ve ever tasted,” and he turns, furry making him light on his feet, a little like he’s hovering as opposed to walking.

     Hunched over herself, she watched the water circle the drain, eyes drifting to the empty bottle, the print on the label smudging with the constant stream. She sighs, holding the kettle under the faucet, listening to the water as it fills it up. There's shock inside her veins, shame around her bones, a sob trying to claw its way up her throat. She won’t allow herself to choke-up, not in his loft, where there’s no place for her tears when the broken pieces of him haven’t found it in themselves to bleed. The water spills out over her hand and she blinks, turning the handle off and placing the pot on top of the stove. The burner  _clicks-clicks_  before the blue flames lick at the metal of the teakettle. She’s never been hesitant before but she makes sure her heels don’t  _clack_  too hard when she makes it to the desk, careful her purse doesn’t rustle too much when she grabs it. She’s never been tentative either but she briefly indulges the idea of taking off her shoes, the resonance of them piercing even to her own ears next to the words that shout in the sound of her own voice inside of her head. She’s selfish; she wants to beg for forgiveness and it isn’t even about him. Remorse has started to push down on her shoulders and she knows he could obliterate the guilt with a side smirk, a flick of the wrist, and a sarcastic comment on her lack of class that she could easily scoff at but she won’t apologize. She knows she wouldn’t forgive anyone for so much as thinking of her the things she actually said to him; Izaya would never lie to rid her of the torment regardless. Instead, she takes out the mirror out of her bag and applies foundation over the red and the purples with her fingertips. Her eyebrows gather every time she touches the sensitive, warm patch of skin and even though the coloring helps, it would still be noticeable if she was stopped on the streets to talk for more than a few seconds.

The kettle whistles and it dawns on her then that she’s lost her job; she never thought he would fire her, always thought she’d be good enough to quit with nose upturned, chin held high; look at her now.

     Izaya sits on his desk chair, crossing his legs and leaning back. He places an elbow on the armrest, a cigarette releasing smoke between his fingers. The ring on his index shimmers silver as opposed to the gold that also misses from the base of his neck. The loss of appetite has accentuated the hollow of his cheeks, there’s a crease in the middle of his eyebrow that isn’t customary to his features, his hair is messier than usual, the bags under his eyes more prominent, and he looks so much like a younger version of Shiki that Namie’s mouth fills with acid. She isn’t aware she’s trembling until the chamomile tea spills over the rim of the cup, hot on the side of her hand. She hisses, dropping the cup plate on the desk. She stares, wide-eyed and startled into immobility, as the plate clatters, rotating on its base and making much more noise than she ever thought she could do with such an uncomplicated and undemanding task. Izaya stares out the window at the citrine tones of fall, leaves falling dry and frail, and without looking away from the view, he places a hand over the plate, silencing the disturbance at once before slipping his hand away in a placid, inaudible, and graceful manner. She sets the teacup atop the plate and the ceramic scrapes against ceramic, making her teeth ache and the hairs rise on her nape. It’s as though a sudden curse has befallen her, stripping her of the ability to be stealthy, sophisticated, and decorous. He huffs and she blushes, humiliated and embarrassed in a way that would suggest he used razor-edged words to chasten her as opposed to a microscopic change in his breathing but the sound of it echoes, speaking volumes of what he hasn’t voiced since her outburst. She bows before spinning around to leave only to be stopped when he catches her by the wrist. “I wonder,” he says, “what will happen to you now?”

She cranes her neck, tilting her head down to look at him. It takes a moment for her vocal cords to work under the scrutiny of his eyes. “Whatever was coming my way anyway.”

He almost smirks. “It’s good to be aware.” He lets her go to crush the cigarette and reach for the teacup.

“Goodbye, Orihara-san.”

He scoffs, snapping his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He waves a hand in a clear dismissal with all the bark and bite the gesture can carry on its own. “Goodbye, Namie,” and he diverts his eyes from the way her bangs curl to frame the wrinkles on her forehead to the cloudy sky and when she opens the front door, he watches it close behind her from the reflection in the glass.

     The landline rings and his blood freezes, causing a needle-like feeling to sprout, reaching out to the end of his extremities. A sheen of sweat clings to the back of his neck, duplicating on the palm of his hands. He stretches his arm, letting go of the cup to place on the desk but it plummets to the floor instead, tea splattering over his feet, dampening the seams of his jeans. It splatters under the chair, splashing over the drawers where it drips to the linoleum. Pieces of teacup scatter, reaching under the dining table and hitting the bottom wood of the bookshelf but the shattering of ceramic goes unnoticed, as though underwater, with the ringing of the phone. He can’t allow the call to go unanswered, he knows. He curls his fingers around the device, taking it off the base, and slipping the speaker over his ear. “Hello?”

“Good morning,” and Izaya’s vertebras rattle at the voice.

“How nice hearing from you. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” and it’s straining to raise his larynx to pitch his pronunciation into a semblance of glee.

“Polite as ever. See, this is why you’re my favorite.” Shiki purrs. “I’m calling to inform you I will be visiting today,” and the call ends with no warning.

Izaya wonders if he should have never left his bed today.

\----------

Shiki’s wife isn’t enough to ease the aching heat Izaya’s absence has created on his pelvis.

     She’s beautiful, lovely really, but her company is tiresome in the same way looking at the smile lines that have permanented on the sides of her mouth even when she isn’t smiling has become irritating. Her long dark hair is coarse, always in the way when she leans forward to kiss him. He finds strands of it on his pillow and floating into his food. She’s soft-spoken and he finds himself tuning her out like her voice is another whisper of the wind. Her breasts have sagged unattractively, dropping something microscopic that can easily be corrected with brassieres, in fact, he’s certain she hasn’t even noticed the changes in her body and it’s rather unfortunate even though he didn't much care for her chest, to begin with. Her face is full and round in shape. Her once slim waist has gained love handles over the years, yielding and soft, but unpleasant to the touch. The cellulite on her thighs and the stretch marks on her arms diminish his arousal, cock deflating ever so slightly and if she ever notices, she doesn’t comment on it. She’s so disposed and eager, turning her head to the side to present the unclothed expanse of her neck instead of twisting to avoid the touch of his lips against her skin. It doesn’t provoke him, her willingness, and she seems so old now even though she’s two years younger than him.

     Izaya has new protruding bones on his wrists and up his clavicle, bones Shiki wants to wrap his lips around to suck at the marrow until there’s nothing left but dry twigs, easily snapped under the pressure. She doesn’t hold a candle to him when Izaya’s presence is sufficient for his nostril to widen, inhaling his scent as though it was oxygen itself, palpable in the air and leaving a trace of his aftertaste in the back of his tongue. Izaya is not fifteen anymore and the sweetness of his flavor has faded but it’s not bitter yet; not like hers has always been.

Shiki regrets not having the opportunity to savor Izaya when he was ten or seven; when he must have tasted of camellia tea with pure saccharine.

     At the sound of the bolt slipping into the lash, Shiki reaches to clench his hand around Izaya’s upper arm, drawing him towards himself into an impression of a hug, chest to back. He lowers one hand over Izaya’s stomach, trailing down to his lower abdomen and pushing him back onto his groin. “I’ve missed you, Mr. Informant,” and on someone else, it would sound longing, melancholic even, but on Shiki’s voice, it’s patronizing with a mocking lilt that falls short of charming. He buries his nose behind Izaya’s earlobe, breathing in, and the smell of anise is strong enough for his cock to swell, twitching under the fabric of his pants and the grinding pressure of Izaya’s ass. "It's been too long to be away from you.” His lips touch the shell of Izaya’s ear, his breath ghosting over his jugular, and the corners of Shiki’s mouth lift with the shudder that passes through Izaya’s shoulder blades. Izaya slips a hand between their bodies, resting it on Shiki’s thigh, and he pushes to create distance but the angle is wrong and the strength in his body is lackluster. Shiki chuckles, dropping his hand to squeeze at the width of Izaya’s penis, shoving him back with the hold and pressing Izaya flush against him. Izaya shuts his eyes on a grunt, blunt nails scratching at Shiki’s fingers in a silent plea to let go, to ease the strength with which Shiki tightens his hands over him. “It’s your fault, you know? I can’t be responsible for my inability to control myself around you when you’re tempting me so much, flaunting yourself like a whore,” and Izaya is consumed by shame at the feel of Shiki fondling him, massaging the head through the jeans. “You’re so beautiful,” and Izaya’s body goes lax, the tension that thrums inside his muscles giving way to the beginning stages of dissociation, the edges of his brain darkening, protecting itself against the flight and fight instincts Shiki eradicated a decade ago when he took great care in grooming him. “Good boy,” and his tone is airy, praising, before he pushes Izaya off him with a jolt, leaving him to find purchase on the wall, knees almost losing the stability to keep him upright, heart pounding erratically in the hollow of his throat. “Stop fucking distracting me,” he hisses and Izaya is left to blink in confusion over the drastic change in demeanor. “Be a dear,” and his tone switches again, with no notice, into something pleasant to the ears, kind and polite; loving even, “won’t you prepare some coffee for me, please?” Shiki walks past him towards the living room, the thick heels of his shoes thumping in contrast to the light pitter-patter of Izaya’s bare feet as he heads to the kitchen.

“Yes, of course,” and his words dissolve on their way to Shiki, hands trembling as he pours water in the reservoir and coffee grains in the filter basket.

“Say,” and Shiki’s speech is muffled by the cigarette that hangs from his mouth, “where is Yagari-san?”

“She isn’t in today,” and the lie comes as easy as breathing over the sound of the coffee brewing.

Shiki angles his arm to hold the cigarette midair. “Oh, well that’s rather convenient for us, isn’t it? Perfect, I'd say,” and the grin is tangible in the words.

“Certainly,” and the affirmation is automatic, detached and somber, in its delivery like the timer on the coffee maker when it _beeps._ “What is this job you wanted me to work on, Shiki-san?”

Shiki sits on the single sofa, legs spread wide apart. “Ah, yes, yes. Stop sidetracking me.” He taps at the end of the cigarette to stop it from burning. “That’s rather unprofessional of you. Work before play, remember that, Izaya-bō,” he says, condescending and ragging.

Izaya treads down the step, giving the mug of coffee to Shiki’s open hand. “I will,” and the smile on Izaya’s face is believable only to someone who doesn’t care enough to know the differences in the inclinations of his features

“Let’s talk business then, before anything else, shall we?” Izaya nods, sitting on the end of the sectional and facing Shiki, the center table, at its length, between them. “Good. I thought I would have to pry you off me in order to discuss work,” he laughs and Izaya furrows his eyebrows. “Now, don’t look like that! We’ll have plenty of time to talk about other things,” and his tone is sexually charged. “Now, I’m going to need you to dig up all you can find about Heaven’s Slave and Amphisbaena. Heaven’s Slave, in particular,” he reaches into his pant pocket, extracting a small clear plastic bag with round white pills inside, “is distributing this drug around.” He shakes the bag as if to make his point before slipping it back into his pocket. “Both these groups are illegally on Awakusu territory.”

“Alright, no problem. As usual, I’ll contact you with the information when I’ve completed the job.”

“Ah, that’s my boy!” he claps, “See, this is why you’re the only one for me. I keep telling Awakusu-san and Akabayashi that there’s no one better for the job despite their doubts.” He smiles and Izaya would love to believe it’s genuine, that there’s soul etched into his words but he knows there isn’t, even if his treacherous heart wants to believe otherwise. It’s almost an obvious lie too, because Akabayashi is, in fact, and secretly, in great terms with Izaya while Awakusu Mikiya doesn’t know who the hell he is.

“Thank you, Shiki-san.”

Shiki leans forwards, placing the mug on the table. “Izaya-bō,” and the honorific grates at Izaya’s nerves with its continual use, "may I inquire you on something?”

“Absolutely, Shiki-san.”

“I’m not sure you remember, it has been a few months, but at my home you disrespected me. Are you aware of this?”

“I apologize,” and he looks so small, as though he was being swallowed by the gray of the couch.

“You left my house without a proper departure. You threw the door and I was certain it was going to fall off its hinges.” He chuckles, standing in one swift motion. “You gave my wife a fright.” He hums. “It was a rather petulant and arrogant display, one, I don’t approve of.” Izaya bites at his cheek and it’s such a darling impulse, one for an impressionable child or an insecure teenager but Izaya is both at heart and the knowledge leaves something to expand inside Shiki’s chest, clawing to rip Izaya like a rabid and desperate salivating beast and if Izaya struggles, the better. He bends, pinching Izaya’s cheeks in his hand and his next words are leveled despite the growing arousal scorching at his veins. “I’m sure you’re sisters wouldn’t want to be terrified too, would they?”

Izaya’s eyes widen. “No, Shiki-san,” he says, voice hoarse and weak; tiny.

“I thought so,” he squeezes Izaya’s cheek before shoving at his face. “Don’t ever do it again unless you’d rather have your sisters pay for your wrongdoings while you’re at the mercy of my men.” His eyes soften. “Don’t make me hurt you, Izaya-bō,” and it’s like he’s whining, hurt and tender in equal measures. “I don’t want to cause you any harm, you know.” He strokes a knuckle over the red he’s left on Izaya’s cheek. “You're special to me,” he says, thumb caressing Izaya's bottom lip. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you how to act and where you stand if you need me to. All you have to do is ask, ok?” He takes hold of Izaya’s chin, forcing his head to nod. “Beautiful,” he whispers, dropping a kiss on Izaya’s exposed sternum, the pads of his fingers moving across Izaya’s shaft over his jeans and Izaya's shiny eyes shut tight at the overwhelming feeling of it all when Shiki’s phone _dings_. The executive straightens, reaching for the device, and Izaya’s muscles all but sigh in relief. “I’m sorry to cut this short,” he says, slipping the phone back into the inside pocket of his blazer. “I love you.” He ruffles Izaya’s hair. “Don’t make me regret loving you so much, ok? I’m the only one that will, Izaya-bō.”

The cologne weakens, the door closes, the sound of shoes disappears and Izaya locks the padlock with shaking fingers.

In the bathroom, Izaya showers in burning water, rubbing at his skin to leave it raw, and when that isn’t enough, he throws up.

\----------

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen autumn in the city,” a sweet and wistful voice says as Izaya steps off the elevator.

“You weren’t always a city girl, Aimi-chan?” he asks, sauntering towards her.

“For a little while when I moved to Kyoto I wasn’t. Oh! Have you seen the sea? It’s beautiful! So blue! And it shines, like, actually shines!” and she makes a grand gesture with her hands as though that could signal the vast size of the ocean and its immense beauty.

He chuckles at her enthusiasm. It’s a breath of fresh air. “Is that so?”

She nods energetically. “It’s almost like it’s filled with diamonds!” and her excitement is electric in the lobby.

He raises an eyebrow. “Did you move to Kyoto  _just_  for the ocean, Aimi-chan?”

“Oh! Not at all! I had this accident and, long story short, I thought it was best to move to the countryside to get better. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Was it?” and he pushes himself up to sit on top of the desk, slipping one thigh over the other and leaning back on his hands.

“I think so. It was a good way to clear my head, get better without the pressures of the city. I don’t know, the scenery alone was a good enough reason for me,” she smiles, the dimples in her cheeks pronounced.

“Were you from around here before that?”

“Ikebukuro.”

“This is Shinjuku, you  _do_  know, right?” He teases.

“Well, of course, I know, Orihara-san!” she laughs, clapping her hands.

“Then what found you here?”

“I was looking for an available place to move back to and I found an apartment in Shinjuku, close to the district line to Ikebukuro, on my price range so I took it. This job was something similar. It came along and I went for it. It’s all worked out just fine so, I don’t complain.”

He hums. “So, is there a particular reason why you came back if you liked Kyoto so much?” he asks.

“Well…” She blushes.

“Oh,” he sing-songs. “Aimi-chan! You have to spill now!”

She giggles nervously. “You see,” and she fiddles with her fingers. “I’m-I’m going to worm my way back to a guy’s heart,” she says, determination clear on her single nod.

“Have you talked to him?”

“Oh, God no!” She chuckles. “I saw him some time ago but he seemed busy and it didn’t feel like the right time. I haven’t seen him since though.”

“And how do you know he wants you?” He tilts his head to the side.

“I mean, I don’t, but I hope! And even if he doesn’t, maybe I can make him fall in love with me. I’m sure he liked me before I left and unless he’s married and with kids then I’ll have no other choice but to employ my charms!” She beams, making a mock-boxing stance.

“But Aimi-chan!” he moans, “What if he’s with this other woman because you left and he thought he was going to be alone forever but he’s dreadfully in love with you still!” He whisper-shouts, “would you let him live in misery?” and his eyes are big, mimicking kid-like curiosity.

“Well,” she stretches the word, “I guess I could always see if I have a shot before giving up but if there are children involved then he made his bed and he can lay on it!” she huffs, the corners of her mouth lifting.

“So cruel! I would have never thought!” he grabs at the shirt over his chest. “He was lonely, Aimi-chan! Heartbroken! You must understand!”

Her laughter booms. “Oh my, Orihara-san! You’re too much!”

He grins. “So, what’s his personality like anyway?”

“He’s gentlemanly, kind, and attentive. Maybe a little brash but his heart is in a good place! He’s attractive too, I think!”

“He sounds pretty average.” She snorts. “See you around, Aimi-chan!”

“Oh,” she says, disappointed. “It was nice seeing and talking to you, Orihara-san. To be honest, you’re my favorite tenant. Everyone else is,” and she wrinkles her nose, “icky.” He laughs. “Anywho, have a nice day, Orihara-san!”

“You’ve made my year!” He smirks, saluting at her before leaving.

“I’m glad!” she yells back and her smile doesn’t drop even when he’s miles away, even when, later, some self-centered woman throws some smelly green smoothie over her white shirt.

\----------

Izaya ambles in the middle of the road, splashing water with each hit of his heels and each drop of his outsoles.

     The streets would be pitch black if the poles and their dim light weren’t casting rings like beacons and the multicolored neon signs of nearby shops weren’t bouncing off the reflective surface of the wet asphalt. Izaya likes Ikebukuro best like this; ethereal in its haunting abandoned façade, barren of humans. It gives him a certain kind of freedom that can only be touched when the day turns black after the sun is eaten by the far-off skyline to give way to the bright widening smile-like silhouette of a waxing moon. He’s anonymous when even the infamous fur-trim coat is unrecognizable and undistinguished against the darkness of the night. Izaya reaches inside the pocket of his jacket to wrap his hand around the last bottle of Prozac he owns, the one Shinra gave him not long ago. He opens the cap, throwing it in the gutter, and tips the bottle over to empty the pills over the street, letting them disintegrate with the rain as though they never existed before this moment, as though they hadn’t been poisoning his body until earlier that same day.

Its placebo, he knows, but watching them fall and turn into nothing is its own brand of therapy, a little like floating on stagnant water.

     He walks for a while longer with no destination in mind, allowing his feet to guide him with muscle memory, no thought to the bending of his knees and the swishing of his arms at his sides. He doesn’t think about his empty loft nor the cold pristine sheets. He doesn’t ponder about unprofessional secretaries, unethical executives, or sorry excuses for friends. Instead, he strolls senselessly until he ends up standing at a corner, somewhere in Ikebukuro. His clothes stick to his body, soaked and heavy when the rain stops prickling at his skin though it still pounds around him and overhead, the sound of it is louder too. He furrows his eyebrows, tilting his head up to see baby blue and his lips part on a silent gasp. He follows the canopy down the metal tube to a hand wound around the handle. He tracks the white cuff up a black vest and further to Shizuo’s warm brown eyes. “Shizu-chan,” he says, breathless, between a statement and a question.

“You’re going to get sick, you know? We don’t want that.”

“We…don’t?” and Izaya’s genuinely surprised.

“Of course not! C’mon.” He signals in a vague direction with his head.

“Where are we going?”

“My apartment. We’re only a block away.”

“Do you usually invite attractive men to your house under the guise of a demand?” He smirks.

“W-what? No! I-I’m not! I’d never! It’s just…you’re wet.”

“Some people would debate that wet is more fun, preferable, even.”

Shizuo blushes. “W-well, y-yes, unless, you know, I don’t judge, maybe pain is, n-not me, though! I-” Izaya laughs, lovelier than the sound of the rain, halting all functioning of Shizuo’s brain. “Um, so...yeah.”

Izaya hooks their arms together, tightening his hold on Shizuo’s forearm. “Take me wherever you want, Shizu-chan,” he says, soft and quiet.

Shizuo smiles. “Alright. Let’s go home.”

\----------

Shizuo can’t stop staring at Izaya; and even when he averts his eyes, they only find their way back.

     Izaya’s monolid eyes are thin in a way that suggests he’s perpetually caught between a smirk and skepticism. His upper lashes are imperceptible in contrast to the dark of his lower lashes, giving him the appearance of black lined eyes at the outer corners. Realistically, his irises are brown but Shizuo swears they’re made of pure red specks scattered over russet-colored liquid. Izaya belongs in his apartment with the peeling paint and on his worn-down futon. He looks so good, fitting, next to the sheer blue curtains and wearing Shizuo’s oversized black sweater. His skin is slightly paler than olive, dewy and glittering on the bridge of his nose and the slope of his cupid’s bow. His legs are on the coffee table, hairless and riddled with small thin scars from childhood accidents and early-adulthood recklessness; no one cares to mention Shizuo’s hand around his foot. Izaya drinks from a half-empty mug of hot chocolate, a smile behind the rim. His hair has always been on the side of messy, shining like onyx stones over his temples and the curious points of his ears Shizuo hadn’t noticed before. It’s damp from the shower, dripping water down his neck and over his shoulders. Shizuo stands, grabbing the towel draped over Izaya’s lap to ruffle at the informant’s hair. Izaya laughs. “I can do that by myself just fine, Shizu-chan!”

“I’m sure, except you weren’t doing it.”

Izaya snorts. “I like to air dry.”

“Well, not on my watch. I didn’t bring you here for you to end up sick anyway!” and when he pushes the towel back, it exposes Izaya’s elated face.

“I’ve never had anyone dry my hair before. It’s actually rather nice,” and he leans his head back, drinking the last drop of chocolate. “I think I better leave, Shizu-chan. We’re both busy men and it’s rather late.”

“Alright I’ll go grab your clothes,” he says, walking to the bathroom as Izaya stands, heading to the kitchen to place the mug in the sink. “Here,” and Izaya doesn’t go to the bathroom, doesn’t turn around, as he slips his underwear on, sweater riding up, and Shizuo blushes from his cheek to his chest while Izaya chuckles, winking. He pulls his pants over his hips, “I’m keeping this, Shizu-chan,” and he tucks the jumper under the hem. “I hope you don’t mind but, even if you do, I’ll just run off with it before you can catch me,” he grins.

“S-sure.” He shrugs jerkily. “I-I don’t care,” and whatever likeness of disinterest Shizuo was going for, fails. “Um,” he scratches the back of his neck, “your jacket isn’t dry yet.”

“The company was good enough to make up for it, I suppose,” he says, smirking, striding towards the front door and bending to put his shoes on.

“Gee, thanks,” and when Izaya straightens, Shizuo’s holding a long cream-colored coat. “Take it, to make up for the jacket.”

Izaya rolls his eyes. “If you insist,” and Shizuo helps him slip his arms in the sleeves, helps him tighten the belt around his waist and adjust the collar only for his hands to stay and, for a moment, they simply stare at each other, faces nearing, and Izaya’s breath caressing Shizuo’s lips.

“T-take this too,” and he backs up, grabbing the umbrella and holding it, as though spasming, out for Izaya.

“Uh…thanks,” he says and when he gazes back up Shizuo isn't looking at him. He pouts. “Hey, Shizu-chan?” and when Shizuo hums, glancing at him, Izaya quickly moves, standing on the tip of his toes and resting his hands on the junctions between Shizuo’s neck and shoulders to kiss him on the cheek.

Shizuo blinks caught blindsided as the door shuts behind Izaya; umbrella disappearing with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prozac is the brand name of generic Fluxotine, what Shizuo's taking.
> 
> For reference: In my universe, Shiki is 38 and 14 years older than Izaya. Meaning, he was 29 when he had penetrative sex with a recently turned fifteen-year-old Izaya. Shiki had done other sexual acts to Izaya before that.
> 
> The scene Shiki speaks of about "the disrespect" is in "Roots." If you remember the scene then you are aware that Shiki has threatened Izaya's well being and his sisters over something very insignificant.
> 
> -bō is a suffix considered more "cute" than -chan and -kun. It is reserved for little boys and considered inappropriate, insulting, for an adult male.
> 
> Aimi is back! 
> 
> Ah, my boys, how cute they are!
> 
>  **Question**  
>  So, I _finally_ added an actual summary to this story. Did you read? What do you think? I'm shit at summaries like a fish is at climbing a tree, haha.
> 
> Tell me what you guys think of "Veins!"  
> -3B


	10. Shoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shizuo.

Shizuo’s at his parents' home.

     With each of his visits, the inside of the house is somehow different than it was before; but it’s always been that way. As a child, he’d wake up to dream catchers hanging over his bed, mismatched Victorian dining chairs, and salsa music on vinyl playing on Sunday mornings even though no one in the household spoke Spanish. His father used to say that knowing the language wasn’t important to understand the words because the way the singer sang them made the meaning of them clear even across the oceans. “ _Love and heartbreak_ ,” he’d say, “ _that’s what they’re singing about_ ,” and Shizuo, at a young age, could feel it too. The mystery in the frequency with which the curtains swapped colors and the rugs exchanged patterns have long lost its charm; that’s why he’s not surprised to enter the house and smell fresh tan paint over the walls and see a porcelain tiger figurine on the coffee table. He’s sure most of it is Namiko but, even so, in his twenty-four years of life, he’s never actually seen anyone moving anything around. In comparison, his tiny studio apartment is boring and uninspiring with its faulty electrical wires that flicker every so often, suggesting some cliché horror ghost haunting as opposed to the almost magical aura that surrounds the alterations inside his childhood home. 

“Mom?” he shouts, closing the door behind himself, but when no one answers he makes sure to lock the bolt before walking towards the porch where he’s sure to find her. He slides the back door and he knows she’s there right away, the gold of her hair glowing under the light of the sun. “Mom. I’m here.”

She looks over her shoulder, a smile on her face. “Shizuo! Honey! I didn’t hear you come in!”

“I know. I yelled for you.”

“Sorry, honey,” she says, “I expected you later in the day.”

He shrugs. “It’s fine. It’s not like I waited or anything. I have a key.”

“I’d think you’d want to avoid coming over,” she laughs, “I was sure you’d wait till the very last moment before showing your face,” and, though it’s not a question, the tone suggests for him to answer anyway.

“Was too restless to wait around doing nothing. Thought walking here would take me longer, though.”

She hums, letting the conversion die on its own.

     Shizuo sits on one of the rocking chairs and the wood creaks with his added weight. He slips the metal case from his shirt pocket, taking a cigarette out of it and putting it in his mouth. He hasn’t felt the need to smoke compulsively for two months but the early-set regret isn’t enough to stop his wrist from flicking the lid of the lighter open, thumb turning the spark wheel to ignite a flame. The remembrance of self-loathing licks at the raw wounds as they scab over but it doesn’t stop him from inhaling the fifth cigarette in a row in the span of a few minutes. He can’t stop bouncing his leg and running his fingers through his bangs, can’t stop the psychosomatic impression of ants crawling under his skin. There’s no way to scratch the itch, in the same way, the medication has inhibited his intake of nicotine but hasn’t overwritten the perceived need for it in extreme bouts of anxiousness. There’s comfort in the familiarity of old habits like the gentle hold he keeps with his teeth and the dryness of the paper against his humid tongue. There’s a reason why he picked up the first and never quit. Maybe, a year from now, he’ll be clean but not right now, not when the illusion of the high seems invaluable against the guilt and disappointment for the short dwindling moment his hands stop trembling and his heart rate drops. Addiction is an interesting thing; it seems almost worth to have when it gives him something quick and easy to ease the thoughts and recede the worries but it also plants seeds of emptiness inside his lungs, leaving his mouth bitter with the taste of a frustrating setback. It’s infuriating to realize he hasn’t thrown away the last box of cigarettes; it’s even more maddening to find himself buying a new carton when the last one has emptied out. It’s a little like watching himself from the other side of a television screen with no real autonomy over his own actions. He closes the lid of the lighter with an audible click and that spurs Namiko to throw him another side-glance as she waters the flowers but that still doesn’t persuade him into crushing the cigarette on the ashtray.

“What?” Shizuo asks, blinking back into awareness, the sunflowers of his mother’s garden coming into focus before he can angle his face to look at her.

“I said: Your father will be home soon,” and she climbs up the steps, sitting on the railing of the back porch. “Know what you’re going to say?”

He huffs, taking a drag of the cigarette. “No.”

“Don’t be nervous. Kichirou loves you and nothing will change that,” but he doesn’t nod in acknowledgment. “And anyway,” she continues, when his silence stretches too long, “I love you and my love sure as hell better be enough! Right, honey?”

He snorts. “Obviously. Dad isn’t nearly as important as you.”

“That’s my boy! Kissing ass is the only way to get high up in the world!”

“Don’t let the neighbor hear,” he says, flicking the ash off the butt.

“Screw ‘em,” she says, flipping her hair. “They’re opinions aren’t important. They didn’t help me raise you boys, did they? No. And the proof of how wonderful I am is in the wonderful boys I made!”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Plus, I wouldn’t want a different mom if I had the chance,” and he crushes the cigarette on the ashtray.

“Just for that, you’ll be getting all the chocolate-chip cookies you want before you leave!”

Shizuo tries for a laugh but there’s no sound over the puff of air that leaves his mouth. He’s thankful for his mother and her usual bright personality but her distraction tactics aren’t enough to entice a weak impression of a smile to grace the corners of his lips. “I just want to get this over with.”

Namiko tries to catch his eye but he isn’t looking at her, isn’t fixing his gaze on anything but the blurred image of the grass as it sways with the wind somewhere behind her. She slides off the railing, gently grabbing his face between the softness of her hands and she’s met with no resistance when she pulls him towards her stomach to drop a kiss on the crown of his head. “Why do you smell of,” she sniffs, “some kind of spice?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles, “bathroom spray?”

Namiko takes a step back, raising an eyebrow. “What’s the name of the fragrance?”

“I didn’t read it. I just… bought it,” but he sounds like he doesn't believe his own words.

“I’m sure that’s it, Shizuo, honey.”

“What’s  _that_  'sposed to mean?”

“It smells a little like black licorice, isn’t it?” she says, ignoring him. “You should get more. It smells really good, nice on you too; suits you.”

“I- thank you?”

“Maybe fennel?” she continues, more to herself than to him, and he doesn’t think to tell her it’s anise; that’s what Izaya smells like the most, the scent that has penetrated the fibers of his futon and lingered on the fur-trim jacket he wrapped around himself to sleep. The thought alone makes heat travel up to the tip of his ears. “Are you alright, honey? You seem a little…” she smirks, “ _flushed_.”

“I’m fine,” he mutters.

“That’s good. I’m sure Izaya-san wouldn’t want you to self-combust before he’s had a taste of the good stuff.”

“M-mom! For fuck’s sake!"

“Sadly,” she sighs, “I’m sure you’ll have a heart attack before you’re able to do anything. Enjoy the view, if nothing else.”

“You’re killing me.”

“I would never! I wouldn’t want to upset Izaya-san like that! I’m leaving the killing to him!”

“For the love of- _please_ , stop!” and he hides his face behind the palm of his hand.

“I can’t wait to meet him!”

“You’ll be waiting forever! I will never bring him anywhere near you!”

“You won’t have to. He’ll come to me.”

“What?” He blinks.

“He’s an informant, right? I’m sure he’ll find me when he wants to.”

“How…?”

“I thought I recognized the name, Izaya. It’s not very common. He’s Orihara Izaya, right? I’ve heard the rumors.”

“Aren’t you… aren't you upset?”

Namiko furrows her eyebrows, the skin between them wrinkling. “About what, honey?”

“Who I like? You just said you’ve heard the rumors.”

She chuckles, her laughter missing the humor that he’d come to expect from her. “My son is ‘Ikebukuro’s Automatic Fighting Doll.’ He’s also the ‘Fortissimo of Ikebukuro’ and I’ve heard monster thrown around too,” and the bitterness that she holds against his reputation is clear, seeping through her words. “I’m willing to bet,” and her tone softens, “Izaya-san isn’t as bad as he’s made out to be either,” and there’s wistfulness in the way she says Izaya’s name.

“He isn’t,” he says, certain.

“I thought so; especially since you like him so much.” She kisses him on the temple when, “Oh?” and her smile is more tangible now, crinkling the sides of her eyes. “Your father’s home!” and she slips from the lazy hold he had on her wrist.

     Namiko’s footsteps thud against the hardwood flooring as she runs to greet Kichirou and Shizuo can imagine his father is throwing his arms around her waist, picking her up from the floor, and hiding his nose in the crook of her neck like he always does after a day at work. The enchantment of his home doesn’t revolve around how things move when he isn’t looking, it contributes to it, of course, but it has more to do with the crackling vivid pink hues of the love that inhabits each and every corner of the house; even the spots where dust can’t reach. It ought to be mundane and commonplace but the deeper he ventures into the intricate architecture of the city the less likely it is to find, as though the notion of it alone was a luxury as well as a relic; a rare mythical force no one can summon. The people he encounters, filling the empty spaces of Ikebukuro, are more like robotic shells that look as though they could be warm to the touch, absent of key components like the ability to give out of the kindness of their own hearts. He remembers when Kasuka ate his pudding and Shizuo knew, for the first time, what rage felt like, ripping the refrigerator from the ground with his bare hands, but Kasuka hadn’t flinched, sure his older brother loved him enough to not cause him any harm. Shizuo’s bones had shattered then, under the strain, but his family wasn’t angry or fearful, instead, they were overflowing with worry and care. It was after growing up and exposing himself to other kids and the little pieces he could gather from their lives that he learned not everyone lived in a seemingly magical house with doting parents and younger siblings that trust them with their lives.

     It was the experience in the world that helped Shizuo adopt a hate for violence and a severe distaste for those who are cruel and malicious, which is ironic, looking back, because he lost himself in anger and antipathy somewhere along the path to twenty-four, turning into the very people he disliked. The epiphany makes him think of Izaya, as he often does, without the need for his mother to bring him up. It’s like a projection; Izaya is fourteen-years-old and smiling at him but Shizuo’s too confused, high on the adrenaline that clung to him from fighting a gang, riding on the loathing they threw at him and he believed, both with reluctance and resignation, and attracted to a pretty boy that didn’t follow the school’s dress code, seeming to have his life together in a way Shizuo hadn’t figured out how to yet; if his honest with himself, he hasn’t still. Shizuo’s at fault for being a snot-nosed kid who initiated a fight on impulse and he’s both surprised and thankful that Izaya held his own or he’d be paralyzed before barely hitting puberty and Shizuo knows he wouldn’t have wanted to live with that irreversible knowledge hanging over his head. Shizuo thinks of Izaya often; of his mischievous teasing nature, of his superb intellect, and the upturn slope of his lips; he thinks of how he’s lost weight and how his under eyes have darkened in the span of a few months. He remembers Izaya sneaking out of school with frequency and Shinra shrugging his shoulder. _“He’s taking care of his sisters. Why do you care?”_   he asked, and Shizuo swore he didn’t but he did because by then he didn’t hate Izaya; never truly did anyway. He tries to put a face to Izaya’s parents but there’s nothing, as though they don’t exist, but he can put a scar to the name Akabayashi, and a bald head to the alias Kine, and he can see a man in white around Izaya since he was a teen.

“Shizuo,” and it’s like sudden thunder has opened the heavens despite Kichirou’s leveled tone. Shizuo startles with it, jumping back into himself, awareness clawing to grasp the gears of his brain. He whips his head, eyes wide, as though he didn’t expect Kichirou even though he’s the reason he’s visiting. He isn’t sure how much time has passed since Namiko left to his father joining him on the porch but it feels like both a few minutes and a handful of hours at the same time. “Well damn,” he says, “I know I’m ugly but I didn’t think I was _that_ hideous.”

Shizuo snorts, the initial surprise and constant trepidation ebbing temporarily with the ease Kichirou carries himself. “Hey, dad.”

Kichirou sits in the chair next to him. “It’s been a while since the last time I saw you.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Shizuo murmurs, scratching the back of his neck.

“It’s alright,” he says, waving a rolled-up newspaper in the air. “We’re all busy doing this or that. By the way, are you still working as a bartender?”

Shizuo nods, setting his eyes on the sky, clear and blue; bluer than it has been for weeks.

“I’d visit but I’m not much of a drinker. Though, I guess most people wouldn’t want their parents hanging around their jobs anyway. Most kids are sick of that by the time they turn eleven."

Shizuo chuckles. “Yeah. I’m also a bodyguard.”

“That’s nice; putting that strength of yours to use somewhere where it’s appreciated.”

“I work for a friend. He’s a debt collector.”

Kichirou hums. “That’s interesting. I’m glad,” and his smile is just as warm as Namiko’s, if not, slightly subdued. “I heard you’re on medication?”

Shizuo ruffles his hair. “Right. Yeah, I am.”

“Has it been helping?”

“It has. I was afraid I’d turn into an emotionless robot but I’ve never felt as good as I do now.”

“Ah, that’s great. That’s what’s important. I’m not even going to get angry that you didn’t actually tell me and I heard it from Namiko,” he says, a side-smile on his face as he pushes the blue-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Shizuo’s smiles sheepishly . “Sorry, should’ve told you.”

Kichirou shrugs, crossing his legs, and unrolling the newspaper over his lap. “Your mother tells me you’re here to share something with me?”

Shizuo’s heart lodges in the base of his throat and he can see the life he’s had slipping through the spaces between his fingers like quicksand. “I-I didn’t come here _just_ for that.”

“Of course not. You’re here because you love your old man and looking at his face is the best thing you can think of doing on a Saturday afternoon. Is that right?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I…” and Shizuo comes out short, voice dispersing with all the ways he can’t find to continue. He doesn’t want to lose his father’s love, doesn’t want to know Kichirou has it in him to admit he’s been a burden of a son. He’s always thought he was a disappointment but hearing it would be another type of hurt all together. Maybe he should have made more time to spend with his father before Kichirou decides Shizuo doesn’t deserve the Heiwajima name.

“How about this?” Kichirou says, opening the newspaper on a random page. “I’m going to pretend to read the sports section until you think you’re ready to tell me what you want to tell me, ok?”

“Sports section. Cool. Sounds like a plan,” he says, drumming on the armrest with his fingers. It scares him half to death to think this is it, this is the moment karma catches up to him, showing its nature. Shizuo wonders if it’s lenient, impartial, or spiteful. “Ok,” he starts, certain his debt is too large, too heavy, to be ignored. “I’m just going to say it.”

“Go on ahead.”

“Here I go.”

“I’m ready.”

He breathes in deep, inhaling smoke, before he whispers, “I’m bi.”

“Bi.”

“Sexual.”

“Yes,” Kichirou rolls his eyes, “I figured that part. I’m old, not senile.” He pushes himself backward, rocking on the chair. “So, women and men?”

Shizuo nods shakily.

“You still like women?”

Shizuo takes a moment. “Yeah.”

“You hesitated. Bi or gay?”

“Bisexual.”

“Male preference, then?”

“That’s…” and Shizuo caves in on himself, sliding a little from the seat. “Yeah,” he says, settling for the word, and he can almost hear Izaya; _eloquent as ever, Shizu-chan_. He smiles, a small tilt of the corners of his mouth.

“Is this a new revelation for you?”

Shizuo blinks. “No.”

“Are you going to tell me when you figured it out?”

“First year of high school.”

“That’s a decade ago,” Kichirou grimaces. “I don’t know if I should feel offended I’ve been out of the loop this long or not. You told Namiko first?” 

“A few months ago.”

“At least she doesn’t have years over me. Why are you telling me this now?” he asks, even though he’s sure he knows the answer.

“I like someone?”

“And this someone is a man?”

“Yes,” and Shizuo hisses when the forgotten cigarette burns the top of his fingers.

“Is it serious?”

He crushes the cigarette on the ashtray. “We’re not- It’s not- I just.”

“Don’t have a stroke,” he says, closing the newspaper and placing it on the round table between them. “So, friends? And you’re trying to get out of the friend zone?”

“We’re not friends? We’re not dating either? I kind of see him by accident on the street and invite him for ice cream or something.”

“Did you meet this guy recently?”

“I’ve known him since we were fourteen.”

“What are you waiting for? The Christian apocalypse? The Norse Ragnarok?”

“I’m going slow!”

“Slow? At this rate, you’re dying. Alone.”

Shizuo fidgets with his vest, pulling at the collar of his shirt. “Does this mean? Are you? Is this? Are we…ok?”

Kichirou furrows his eyebrows. “I don’t understand. We’re fine. Why wouldn’t we be?”

“Aren’t you upset that I’m bi?”

“What? Is that the impression you have of me?”

“I don’t know! I thought that maybe this was the last straw and-“

“Last straw for what?”

“To disown me.”

Kichirou blinks a couple of times. “What? Shizuo, no. No.”

“I don’t know your thoughts on the LGBT community. We’ve never talked about that. What was I mean to believe? I wasn’t sure how you’d react but I had to prepare myself for the worse so it wouldn't hurt so much when you told me you’ve had enough.”

“Enough of what?”

“Of me and my shit! You can’t- You can’t tell me you’re happy to have me as your son.”

“What the fuck? Shizuo, what the fuck?” and Kichirou is both surprised and troubled, genuinely perplexed by the path the conversation has drifted to. “Have I truly been that horrible of a father? Have I really disappointed you this much?”

“I- what?”

“Did I not tell you I loved you enough? Should I have done more? Something specific?”

“N-no. That’s not- That’s not it! I thought you’d be tired after all the trouble I’ve caused. I thought you might not want me to be bisexual.”

“How can you think that? I’m proud of the sons I have. Kasuka is an actor and you are a biological miracle. You were so small when you were born; premature. The doctors didn’t even know if you would live, Shizuo, but look at you now! I couldn’t be happier with the family I have unless I went back in time to relieve it all over again.”

Shizuo stares at his father as though he’s seeing the man for the first time. “R-really?”

Kichirou sighs, the corners of his eyes dipping. “My roommate in college was gay. He was also my best friend. He’s dead now; hate crime. He didn’t even graduate. I had to move a month later to a single room because the thought of sharing a living space with anyone else felt like I was betraying him. I don’t talk about him because it still hurts to think of him, to know he’s gone.” He laughs wetly. “He’s the one that introduced your mother and me. He’s always told us we were bound to get married because of destiny or fate, or whatever new he believed in that week. He couldn’t wait for us to have kids so he could be the cool uncle. I love you, Shizuo, and I don’t care who you love as long as you’re happy and healthy, and alive. You’re not allowed to die before me, you hear?”

“Dad, I…” but there’s nothing to say to that, nothing good enough to make the obvious pain in his father’s heart ease the loss like time hasn’t done, so he says, “I love you too,” instead.

Kichirou smiles, melancholy still clutching to the angle of his mouth. “Good. Now, how about this,” he sniffs, “when you get your head out of your ass and make a move on this guy, bring him over, ok?” Kichirou stands, squeezing Shizuo’s shoulder when he nods. Kichirou picks up the newspaper and enters the house, sliding the door closed.

Shizuo waits for his father’s footsteps to retreat before his breathing picks up the pace, hand over his mouth weak to stop the sound of his sob as it rips itself from his chest.

\----------

Shizuo doesn’t so much as catch a glimpse of one of Izaya’s nails today.

     For a fleeting tormenting moment, however brief, he thinks its karma’s doing. It’s the price to pay; the pleasure of leaving his family’s relationship intact in exchange for whatever he could have had with Izaya. It is how it is, isn’t it? Something has to give - but maybe none of it is real and Shizuo’s just setting himself up to grow white hairs before the brown roots can emerge over the bleach blond. Being alone does help, though. It gives Shizuo time to catalog all that has happened, organizing his thoughts into clearly labeled boxes inside of his brain.  It’s calming, in his apartment, silent and non-intrusive. It’s relaxing, so much so that Izaya’s absence is, initially, a relief, a welcome respite for his heart to heal after the hectic rate it has kept all day long. It only slowed after his talk with Kichirou and fully unwinding as he watched television with his parents, eating some of his mother’s cookies, but it spiked right after he closed the door of his childhood home, smelling the crisp November air. He’s grown accustomed and content with the impromptu meetings with Izaya that he spent the entire walk to his apartment looking over his shoulder, heart pounding against his spine, hoping to see a glimpse of the informant. The solace over Izaya’s nonappearance is short-lived because Izaya’s company, even for a few seconds, would have been the highlight of his day, the metaphorical cherry on top, after knowing his unconditionally loved by his parents; their love separate from what Shizuo deems his self-worth to be.

     The disappointment doesn’t last long, not after it turns into worry. He’d rather have a spaced-out Izaya drenched in the middle of the road where he can see him, touch him, and give him shelter than to constantly wonder where the fuck he is and if he’s alright wherever that may be. It’s almost aimless, how much Shizuo gets worked up over him; is he eating? Is he smiling? Has the yakuza thrown his corpse in the ocean? Is he watching some nostalgic cartoon show? Is he lonely? This relentless anxiety can’t be good for Shizuo’s health but he can’t think it will stop anytime soon unless Izaya mends into his chest, staying there where is warm and safe. He thinks of Izaya in the middle of the night, smiling and leaving the trace of his slight dimples in the memory of strangers. Shizuo is jealous, irrationally, of the air for lifting the hair that rests on Izaya’s nape, and the silver that hugs the circumference of his fingers, and the hot chocolate he sipped from Shizuo’s favorite blue mug, wetting his lips. He’s fond of the cheesecake Izaya likes and the lemon cake he despises. He’s plummeting hard for Izaya’s features and the way his threatening beauty has ingrained itself in the slopes of his brain. He wants to know of the things he doesn’t know yet, the ticks Izaya has when he’s nervous and the mannerism he overuses when he’s angry. _Fuck._ Shizuo’s at the threshold of falling in love, he can almost taste it, the same way he still tastes the tea his mother brewed and the nicotine in the back of his teeth.

Shizuo won’t fight the rapture, in fact, he’s not sharing his love with anyone; only Izaya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've met Kichirou! 
> 
> Ah, Shizuo. How precious is he?
> 
> Tell me your thought on this chapter!  
> -3B


	11. Cuticle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izaya.

Izaya wakes from a nightmare.

     He’s in limbo; somewhere between alertness and sleep, where his brain doesn’t fully comprehend the noises in his loft - the ones he’s not responsible for. He’s breathing hard; sharp inhales and shaky exhales echoing three times over in the empty spaces of his apartment but the sound of him forcing oxygen into his lungs isn’t the only thing his ears can pick up even though it’s all muffled by his lack of awareness. From the curtains of his dream and into reality, pain pulses, radiating from his legs and up his spine, expanding inside of his arms. His body trembles with it, bones hurting as though shattered but the suffering resides deeper into the crevices of his mind where the still-fresh image of Shizuo bending Izaya’s body with the force of his anger lives. Not even the kukri he kept on a death grip was enough to match against the raw power that Shizuo’s punch encompasses. It isn’t real, he knows, but a lump tasting of iron still rises in is esophagus in response to the hate that was in Shizuo’s eyes, so tangible and concrete – heartbreaking - even for a dream.

Izaya grunts on both panic and pleasure – and even if his thoughts are slurred he catches that last piece of information with immediate confusion.

     He flutters his lashes, opening his eyes, and blinking repeatedly to erase the red film of his blood from his pupils. The bright yellow sunlight opens his vision, taking the dream to lie and die outside of himself where it’ll become a fleck of a lost memory he’ll never have to live. Consciousness washes over him and the world clears at the edges, the angles of Shiki’s bone structure sharpening more than anything he’s seen in days. His lips are around Izaya’s cock, taking him fully between the roof of his mouth and the bend of the opening by the end of his tongue towards his throat. It’s disorienting, waking to spasm; toes curling, abdomen flexing, heart hammering against his ribs, and the pressure of the executive's palm holding him down as he looks up at Izaya with a smirk on his face – or as much as he can smirk with Izaya’s length deep in his mouth. He makes a dying noise of distress but it sounds a little too much like a moan for his own liking and he shuts his eyes as if he could will the moment away or drive Shiki to disappear – a little like the logic of a child: if he can’t see him then, surely, he must not be there.

     Enfolded by Shiki, Izaya softens at a rapid pace but it doesn’t deter Shiki from hollowing his cheeks, sucking hard even though Izaya has nothing left to give. He jolts to the prickling of over-stimulation as though shocked by electricity, muscles stiffening more than they already were in protest to sleeping on the sectional as opposed to the mattress upstairs. He isn’t sufficiently cognizant to force his body to turn away but even if he did, he wouldn’t. He could press his tongue against his teeth, learning to reacquaint himself with his vocal cords and opening his mouth to speak but he won’t. Izaya prides himself in knowing Shiki a little better now than he did when he was a kid and the executive doesn’t approve of having his authority questioned or being rebelled against. He wouldn’t allow these types of misbehavior slide without retaliating in some way – usually with painful or deadly repercussions – and perhaps, Shizuo’s anger and hate are better than being awake, after all.

“Ah,” Shiki starts, crawling upwards, “you’re awake, Izaya-bō!” and his breath is nicotine and decomposition in the face of Izaya’s youth. It’s reminiscent of years long gone when Izaya was fourteen and learning about guns and drugs, manipulation, and information.

His favorite lesson, according to Shiki, came at that age too; kissing.

    It’s stupid. Kissing is stupid; something giggling five-year-olds do at recess under the monkey bars, mimicking actors in movies when they declare their undying love a few minutes before the film ends or when they kiss passionately with one of the actor’s back against a surface. Maybe, it’s their parents who they’re trying to be more like - Izaya wouldn’t know. They peck with a barely-there touch, innocent and simple like claiming a room full of children as their friends for life. The action, in and on itself, is not inherently fueled with meaning nor emotions but it’s not insignificant to Izaya. It’s intimate like it isn’t for someone that kisses their one night stands as though it was the same as sharing a smile with everyone that walks past them on the streets.

     Shiki’s lips, a decade ago, were parched and dry to the point that sometimes when he smiled, blood slid from the cracks, drying in the splits in deep reds and dirty browns, almost black. His tongue was slick and cold, tasting of alcohol on the rocks with the scent of rusted metal. Izaya whined, bringing his hands around Shiki’s wrist to pull it away in vain. He tried to move his head and crane his neck to the side but Shiki’s grasp would only tighten, bruising his jaw. Every time he shifted, Shiki’s nails would dig into his chin, scraping and breaking the skin. He could only remain upright with Shiki’s knee between his weak and numbing legs. He was caged against the bathroom door of the western-styled motel by Shiki’s body, whimpering and eyes growing glassy. Shiki chuckled, loosening his grip but not letting go. “ _I’m sorry_ ,” he said, with something akin to a sing-song tone. He caressed the area but the tips of his fingers were too rough to ever be considered soothing. Izaya grimaced at the stinging of Shiki’s thumb over his open wounds. " _Did I hurt you?_ ” he asked with a breathy quality to his voice that tried for concern and naïveté. He didn’t really expect an answer and Izaya didn’t give him any, too surprised and muddled to know what he was meant to say; nevertheless what – or how – to feel about the unfamiliar situation he found himself in.

Silence seemed like the best option than anything he couldn’t think to say.

     Shiki nipped at Izaya’s chin, trailing up and leaving wet patches on his cheekbone. He buried his nose in Izaya’s hair, inhaling deeply. “ _I can’t control myself_ ,” he moaned, “ _You’re just so damn beautiful_.  _Tempting me all the time_.” At that time, Izaya had never wished for anything with such fervor than to be ugly. He wanted all that made him pretty to melt from his face like wax. “ _God, I love you so much, you know?_ ” and Izaya felt something bursting inside his chest, orange and warm; hope. Shiki curved a hand on Izaya’s waist, the other holding the side of his neck with a finger twirling the hairs on his nape. “ _You’d like it if you’d try it. I promise_ ,” he said, tugging at the cartilage of Izaya’s ear. “ _What do you say?_ ” He withdrew, smiling down at Izaya but, though the smile seemed gentle at first, the more he stared at it the more unsettling and static it felt. Goosebumps arose on Izaya’s arms and he nodded, something slight that could have been caused by the wind more than anything else and Shiki’s smile grew – more sincere than it was before. Izaya felt a sense of pride because Shiki was content and if that was so, then Shiki wasn’t going to be the third person he drove away; as if his parents’ abandonment was his fault, to begin with.

     How was Izaya to know that Shiki was a master at pulling his heartstrings, playing them with the same dexterity of someone that had dedicated their entire lives to music? He pushed and prodded with precision at Izaya’s brain as if he could read each thought and sentiment like words on a cheap book he didn’t even buy. A fourteen-year-old can’t possibly be taken as able to consent in the face of a man over a decade older in matters that he didn’t understand. Shiki, however, took a hesitant nod as enough to implement, before and after the fact, all coercion tactics he could, grooming Izaya into being the perfect victim with the perfect impressionable mind and, truly, he was just so easy: terrified of watching the only adult left in his life leave to never return – starved to the point of fearing to be unloved and unlovable in equal measures. Shiki would be doing the kid a favor, really; the illusion of it all would be satisfying to reel Izaya in until he couldn’t find a way out. No one would want Izaya anyway, he thought, so he was actually being extremely kind. He took Izaya’s face in his hands, whispering, “ _Good boy_ ,” over his lips before kissing him – sloppy and disgusting – saliva slipping out of the corner of their mouths. Izaya almost gagged. Shiki urged their bodies together, roughly squeezing Izaya’s hip when it felt as though Izaya was pushing at his shoulders to create space between them. “ _I love you_ ,” he said, and Izaya mollified. There was no tale-tell of a lie then but - Izaya knows now - Shiki is incapable of such a thing.

     Later, with one last peck on the lips, Shiki watched Izaya’s lithe boyish form get out of the car and walk towards the front door of the Orihara home. He kept eyes on him from the tinted window as Izaya entered the house, the door shutting behind him. He thought back to all the parts of Izaya he’d touched with a little more desperation than he cared to admit. He had been brash and insistent, he knew, but he stopped before he could completely overwhelm him. Shiki was eager, not obtuse. He didn’t want to shock or frighten him – perhaps, only mildly startle him into submission if necessary. Tasting Izaya on his tongue and smelling him in his nostrils increased his appetite to such stature that he gave his driver the address of a Brothel, rushing the man as though he was dying from thirst. There, he found a young male prostitute with Orion makeup to fuck, releasing the pent-up lust that had settled on his lower abdomen. He managed to sate for a miniature second between coming and leaving the establishment. Somehow, his hunger had only amplified tenfold. He desired Izaya so much that it left him trembling inside his own veins, bouncing his leg in the backseat of his limousine. His heart battered against his rib cage in frantic enthusiastic anticipation for the next time he’d see Izaya – perhaps, he’d tear him apart then.

     Izaya, on the other hand, went into his house with more than just mild confusion. He climbed the stairs and went into the bathroom, washing his mouth so many times he was left spitting blood – and when his lips grazed over his gums, it stung. He showered quickly and efficiently. He scratched as a means of washing until he was red, blotches of non-dripping blood visible in his pores like strawberry seeds on his skin. He took the most concealing clothes he could find, a long-sleeved turtleneck shirt and a pair of long sweatpants, and laid on his sisters’ bed, surrounded by their stuffed animals, pink-colored walls, and candy scented sheets. He curled into a fetal position and cried himself to sleep, waiting for the twins’ school day to end so they could return home. He would then proceed to pretend nothing had occurred, plastering a smile on his face and trying his best to be the most perfect version of a parent he could think of for them.

 

 

     He had almost forgotten, had almost deluded himself into thinking that it hadn't been so bad. Even his brain had deceived itself into believing he hadn’t been mistreated, that he hadn’t felt fearful and used. Somehow, he had forgotten the tears and the bruises marrying his adolescent skin. Nostalgia is a funny thing like that, distorting memories over the passage of time, dyeing it with colors it originally didn’t have. It’s a little like remembering all the good in someone only after they die or being unable to think of all the wrong they did without some level of affection lacing the remembrance of the person. It wasn’t only melancholy though, not when Izaya has a tendency to bury the happenings of his life under the current of new events, ignoring them until he can’t - until the memories are resurrected, triggered to the surface like an old putrid ghost that refuses to pass over.

     Shiki’s lips are close to the corner of his mouth. His thumb rubs at Izaya’s lips. He smiles, lopsided. “It’s been a while,” he says, staring at the slope of Izaya’s Cupid’s bow as though there’s something hidden in it that he’s been searching for all along. Izaya’s breath gets caught, stopping altogether, and it’s like he’s fourteen all over again, the recollection as clear as spring water, thunderous in all its elapsed glory. Izaya doesn’t move but his fingers twitch where they lie as if they had a life on their own, keen on scratching Shiki’s hand, at his face, his eyes. Izaya does none, instead, his mind fogs over, looking a little through Shiki the more seconds tick by. Shiki shifts, pushing himself off Izaya to sit next to his feet and it’s as though Izaya’s soul lowers back into his body. He blinks, relaxing at the distance between them, almost fusing with the cushions. He pulls his legs closer to his abdomen and out of proximity to Shiki’s heat. He sighs audibly relieved, unworried with the noise he makes; not that it matters. Shiki, for all his seeming omniscience, disregards the sound wholly as an aftereffect of the orgasm he swallowed, distracted by the prettiness that is Izaya after he comes; blushed cheeks and tousled hair. He hadn’t remembered or, perhaps, he’d never seen. It’s not surprising; he isn’t in the habit of giving Izaya a fraction of the pleasure he takes from the informant, preferring to fuck him, mostly, from behind to avoid his expressions and the blasted red of his eyes when the sun hits them just right. It’s an inconsequential observation, regardless. An unimportant fact that won’t affect Shiki’s view of Izaya or spur him to change how he treats him. In fact,  _Izaya doesn’t deserve anything more than what I give him._ Shiki lights a cigarette, the smoke floating in front of him. “So,” he starts, “how’s the whole gang business going?” he asks, a little distracted by the overall emptiness of the apartment; there’s no expensive Latino paintings or Greek statues like he would expect Izaya to have.  _Has it always been this way?_ The most interesting part of Izaya’s loft is the wide range of books on the shelves but Shiki isn’t one for reading outside of business. Sure, he gave Izaya a few books when he was younger, notably, the Phantom of the Opera, but it’s a novel Kine gave to him after explaining what it was all about, spoilers included, before leaving for Russia.

He didn’t even know the book was in French and, much less, that Izaya knows the language.

“Nothing of consequence as of yet,” Izaya says, rising to a sitting position with a hand on the armrest, knuckles going white to the dizziness that takes over his head.

Shiki hums, raising an eyebrow and looking at him with the corner of his eye. “Nothing at all?”

“They are preoccupied with fighting each other for the title of the second biggest gang. They are, more or less, paying the Awakusu-kai no mind as of this moment."

“I see. Any names?”

“No. Just aliases.”

“Good job. Not that you have the choice of making a bad one,” he laughs. “I know you might be wondering why I’ve sprung on you much earlier than I usually would after giving you a job.” He inhales, and when he talks, smoke leaves his nose. “It’s not really anything to be worried about.” He shrugs, patting Izaya’s on his calf. “I was around and thought you’d appreciate a visit,” he smirks, “right?”

“Of course, Shiki-san. Thank you,” and the words grate on his throat like sandpaper rising up to his mouth.

Shiki stands, twisting the lit end of the cigarette on the glass coffee table, dropping the butt over the ash. He unzips his pants, pulling his cock by the opening, and hitting Izaya’s face with it. “Suck it, Izaya-bō. Hurry. I have places to be and other things to attend to.”

     Izaya places the sole of his feet flat on the floor, curling a hand around the edge of the couch and wrapping the other around the base of Shiki’s penis, the skin hot and prickly. He opens his mouth with almost no hesitation, the drive to finish as fast as possible moving him forward. “Eager?” Shiki says with mirth. Izaya closes his lips around it, bobbing his head hastily from the moment of contact. Shiki grabs his hair, tightening his grasp, and pushing him to take more of him. Izaya gags with tears on his eyes. Shiki tastes of sour salted milk and a strong stench of sweat and eggs emits from his pubic hairs but Izaya isn’t deterred, pressing his mouth against Shiki’s pelvis and sucking hard. Shiki doesn’t last long, less than a minute, reaching climax with a weak grunt. “Your mouth is so filthy, isn't it?’ He says, grabbing at Izaya’s chin to bring his face up. “You're made to suck cock, my cock, aren’t you?” and he swipes his thumb over the corner of Izaya’s mouth, bringing it up to his own and licking at his come to taste. He hums. “Good, isn’t it?” He caresses down Izaya’s throat. “I like it when you swallow my come. You always do, though, I suppose you wouldn’t want me to teach you how to do it all over again, right?” he grins.

Izaya nods, covering himself by cupping his hands over his penis.

“I thought so,” and Shiki’s eye crinkle with the show of his teeth. He puts his flaccid penis back inside his underwear, zipping his pants, and flattening the collar of his shirt. “Thanks for a good time, Izaya-bō! Next time it will be less boring, I promise,” he laughs, grabbing his jacket from the back of the couch and draping it over a shoulder as he leaves.

     The latch bolt clicks into place and Izaya stands at the sound. Nausea flares with the motion. He blinks, forcing his vision to clear from the hazy and rippled effect that has befallen it. He doesn’t move – not an inch – until the loft stops swirling and the skyline falls back into horizontality outside his window. He bends ever so slightly - nowhere near a ninety-degree angle - to swipe the cigarette and the ash onto the palm of his hand before straightening his back once again – slow and steady. He puts one foot in front of the other and walks, feet patting on the floor. He holds himself upright with a hand on the wall, body close to leaning against it. He enters the kitchen, grabbing the edge of the counter-top. He picks up the sink sieve to let the butt and its residue fall down the drain. He spits Shiki’s come, turning the faucet on to watch it all wash away and putting the sieve back. The aftertaste crawls up his pours when he exhales through his nose. He opens the top cabinet, twisting the lid of a crystal jar and taking a mint out. The wrapper crinkles as it rips and he rolls his eyes, throwing it into the trash and popping the hard candy into his mouth. He savors the taste of it as it erodes Shiki from his tongue.

     He brings his hand to his neck, stroking the side of it, but despite feeling feverish he isn’t hot to the touch. His skin is damp, glistening the high of eyebrow bone and the line of his collarbones. He’s sweating through Shizuo’s sweater, he notes, the fabric sticking to his chest but still smelling of fresh strawberries.

     He leaves the kitchen, stopping at the hallways and staring at the door. He sighs, walking towards the window, careful not to lose his balance. He places his hands on the glass, fogging it every time he breathes on it, and watching the people sprint across the street. The sun is setting, the sky a myriad of purples and orange reflecting on the metal of the skyscrapers. He turns, opening his mouth with the slight vibration of his vocal cords but a dying sound comes out when his eyes catch the other side of his desk and the empty chair pushed in. He smiles self-deprecatingly, jutting his hip, before chuckling. It truly is a low point if he’s missing Namie and the way she flips her hair when offended or sways her hips when she thinks she’s won an argument. But there’s no one in his loft to create noise anymore, the tick of the clock as it tocks the only thing that bounces off the walls.

     Izaya is lonely. It’s not as though the concept is new or unfamiliar. It hasn’t caught him off-guard, not as much as he would have liked it too. He’s mastered the art of growing accustomed to what is constant, adapting quickly to the card life deals him, even if through denial and disconnection. Normally, he would ignore it all, burying it with the unwanted recollection of Shiki’s skin, Shirou’s tilted chin, Kyouko’s grin, his undying love for the twins, and how close he was to kissing Shizuo’s lips. It’s easy, most of the times, when he throws himself into work until he’s so busy he doesn’t realize there’s something injured in him in need of healing. He can’t allow his lethargic body and hyperactive mind to whirl. Izaya doesn’t want to think, doesn’t want all the things he’s worked so hard to repress to spill over his hands, dripping from in between the cracks of his fingers. Izaya doesn’t want to feel either, doesn’t want to let the emotions swallow him up like an old and flavorless chewed-up gum.

So, he doesn't, instead, Izaya goes to Ikebukuro.

     It’s not all that surprising. Ikebukuro, though he wouldn’t use the word  _home_  for it, is much more familiar than Shinjuku will ever be; it fills him with more disquiet too but that’s perhaps part of its allure when, in contrast, he feels nothing remarkable for Shinjuku despite the six years he’s lived in it. He knows Ikebukuro; knows the streets by name, the shops by corners, the people by face, and the alleys by quarters.

     It’s been a day since he stopped taking the medication but he’s sure his brain has already received the information on the two missing doses despite it still being in his system. He feels better, overall, but it won’t last long. His legs are sturdier than they’ve been for weeks as he walks through the crowd but they still shake. The smell of coffee is appealing again as much as the color of food but thinking of having a full stomach is still rather disagreeable. He’s taking advantage of the lovely autumn day and the better physical condition his body seems to exhibit before he can’t endure moving on top of the comfort of his own bed.

     The air is smoke filled in that particular way that can only belong to an industrial city, smelling of fumes and gasoline but like intimacy to the point of almost being missed. The cold raindrops fall in a scattered shower over his nose, refreshing and cooling on his skin. People watching is just as entertaining as it’s always been but now he can truly enjoy the little pieces of others he can grasp. It’s interesting, what he can find out in a simple visit to the café. He opens the door and the bell overhead rings with his arrival. There’s, immediately, a woman fighting with her husband in shouted whispers, accusing him of being unfaithful. The man doesn’t defend himself all that well when he responds, “it was by accident,” to sleeping with his co-worker. Izaya scoffs. If that’s the best excuse he could come up with then she deserves better anyhow. As the line moves forward he takes a look over his shoulder to the counter in front of the window and two chuckling young women with bright colored eye-shadow and high ponytails pointing at a guy in a suit working on his laptop. Izaya orders an iced tea and waits to the side, noting the Raira students groaning over how increasingly difficult their classes are as the winter break approaches on a table to the back, close to the restrooms. His name is called, or rather Nakura’s is, and on his way out with a cup in hand, he notices a girl staring at her best friend – another girl – with longing as opposed to mere platonic fondness.

     Izaya doesn’t go to Shizuo’s side of Ikebukuro until later in the afternoon - when the sky is more black than blue. It’s not as though he was avoiding that part of the district on purpose. It’s nothing against Shizuo himself, nothing leading back to evasion nor leaving the best for last, though, in the back of his mind he admits to dread having to return Shizuo’s clothes, especially the over-sized, tan coat. It’s comfortable and heavier than his own. The lingering scent of menthol has interwoven between his own strands of hair.

He doesn’t even know he’s a block away from Shizuo’s street until he startles to a stop with the shout of his name. “Orihara-sama!”

He whips his head toward the alley. Yukari waves at him with a man trailing his lips up her neck. Izaya snorts, shaking his head. “Yukari-chan! What a lovely surprise!”

“Isn't it?” and she’s pushing the man away, running up to Izaya.

“Hey!” the man bellows. “What the hell?” he says, out of confusion more than anger.

“I’ve missed you, baby boy!” she says, crossing her arm with Izaya’s and pulling him further down the street. “Where have you been? Not hiding from me, I hope,” and she’s smiling, broad and bright.

“Of course not. I’ve been busy.”

“So, what are you doing in these devious parts?”

He barks a laugh. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“A Yakuza man, sure, but still.”

He shrugs. “Taking a stroll.”

She hums. “Well, if you aren’t too busy? Why don’t we have some fun together?” she says, mischief in her eyes.

He looks up to her neighboring complex – Shizuo’s. “Yeah?” he asks, absentmindedly. “What sort of fun?”

“C’mon,” and she’s letting him go to open the door for him.

He grins. “What a gentleman!”

“Just for you!” On their way to her apartment, there’s the sound of her heels snapping on the stairs and television booming with children screaming. “Excuse my neighbors. They’re lovely, aren’t they?”

“Royalty, really.”

She laughs, entering her apartment with outstretched arms. "My humble abode!" She shouts. It's a charming place and from it, he can see into Shizuo's. “So, what is this fun you’re inviting me to take part in?”

“Drinking and dancing, baby boy! The night hasn’t even begun and we have the rest of it for ourselves! What do you say?”

“A party? Me?”

“Well, you don’t have to say it as though you’re an old man that doesn’t know what the word party means,” she rolls her eyes.

He laughs. “I don’t know, Yukari-chan.”

“I bet you’d be popular with the party-goers. You’re sure popular with me."

“Yeah?” He asks, looking out the window. “I have things to do,” but it comes out too soft to ever be true.

“Is that why you were taking an aimless stroll?” She chuckles. “Tell the bitch to do your job for a night.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “Who?”

“Namie.”

“I fired her.”

“She had it coming, I'm sure.” She waves her hand in the air. “One day won’t hurt, Izaya. Why not be with good company?”

“I’d have to go back to Shinkuju to change into clothes I don’t have.”

“I have clothes.”

“For me?”

“Sure. I have to have a nice blouse that’ll fit.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Well, you’d know, if you weren’t staring out to Heiwajima-san’s place,” and she’s smirking when he looks to her. “He’s not home, won’t be in a while. Work, I’m sure.”

“I know.”

“You do, don’t you?”

“I’m an informant.”

“Then stop looking as if you’re going to catch him opening the goddamn door! If you want to see him so bad call him up on a date or whatever the gays do nowadays!"

“The gays? You’re pansexual! You’d bed an alien with different anatomy if you found a way to.”

“Yes. That’s true. What’s your point?”

“Clearly, none.”

She snorts. “Ah, you kill me, Izaya-sama! Anyway, I saw you in his apartment. I swear, I didn’t stare. I just passed my glance and it lingered abundantly in order to recognize you.”

“Is that so? Did you like the view? I’m sure I was half naked.”

“Oh, it was delightful!”

He laughs, lighter than he’s felt it be for years.

“Changing the subject dramatically, how’s Saki-chan?”

“She’s wonderful! Parents have been sentenced for centuries to come! Boyfriend will be gone for less but he’s got no idea it was her so he won’t be looking for her. Her aunt is officially a guardian and she’s awesome!”

“That’s good to hear. Here,” and he’s reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, taking out a business card with a link. “For her, from me.”

Yukari takes it, placing it inside a folder. “She’ll love to hear from you. You’re a little like her savior,” and her smile is genuine and proud. “Here,” she says, giving him a blouse. “Wear this and make Japan fall in love.”

And he does, because he doesn't want to return to the hovering dust and the houseplants of his home-decor catalog loft; not yet.

\----------

    Izaya’s heart, which he had taken for hollow, charges heavy with sparks. They crackle, growing winks of fire that alight his blood. The loud music drowns the frantic desperate laughter that may or may not fizz into sobs once or twice as the night progresses. He isn’t oblivious or unaware. In the shadows, where his face can’t be matched to his name, he’s not only unrecognizable but desired. He understands because, in the dark, where the trembling of his thighs can be confused for the vibrations of the beat, he wants himself too. It’s in the old men in the corner booths that only need the plunging neckline that reaches just under his sternum to inflate their cocks halfway – the most they can without the help of medication. It’s in the women at the bar with their skin-tight dresses that don’t know he’s twenty-four looking seventeen. They assume many things except the fact that he has little left to give that hasn’t been taken from him. If they knew, perhaps they’d want him less, but they don’t, so he’ll take their dilated pupils for illusions of affection. It’s not for forever – just for the little while he’ll be dancing under the kaleidoscopic lights he’ll believe in quasi-endorphins.

     Izaya’s wrist twirl when he spins, fingers brushing against someone else’s skin. It’s as though being stung by a wasp, to the stranger, goosebumps traveling from where Izaya touched him. He creeps his hands up Izaya’s neck, fingers coiling on his nape. He has a pink drink with a decorative umbrella set against the rim. It’s more than half drunk. There’s something innocent in his big doe honey eyes, something imploring. “H-hey,” the stranger starts, “um, nice night?” He asks, insecure, stuttering over the noise. Izaya laughs, nodding, keeping in beat with the feel of the bass under his feet. “I’m Kida. I- um, I’m sure the name would sound better in the acoustics of the bathroom?” He says, unsure, his breath hitting the shell of Izaya’s ear and voice rising in tone near the end. Izaya chuckles, grabbing his hand and spinning him around.

     To the side, Yukari’s crystal dangling earring glimmer. Shizuo’s tan coat hangs in the back of the chair she sits on. He smiles; he can still feel the warmth of Shizuo’s cheek on his lips. Her foot is riding up a man’s leg. His hand is on hers. She’s talking sugar – dripping honey – but her eyes wander to Izaya. She side smiles, wiggling her eyebrows. Izaya laughs, shaking his head, and bringing Kida closer. “I’ve been w-watching you for some time, d-dancing, I mean. Y-you’re really good,” and Kida’s breath is alcohol and fruit punch. He’s obviously buzzed, if not drunk.

“Yeah?”

Kida nods, eager, a big smile breaking onto his face. “What do I call you?”

Izaya leans forward. “Nakura is alright.”

“You’re home?” and Izaya’s too sober to even pretend that he needs to think about it.

“I’m not here to take anyone home.”

“B-but… I’ll be good. I’ll do whatever you want,” and he sounds so much younger than he is as he begs.

Izaya’s world sometimes moves in slow motion but there’s nothing fuzzy about how much he doesn’t want Kida. He’s too thin, he’s too short, and he’s underage. If there’s anything that Izaya could ever long for is the yellow of his bleached blonde but it isn’t the same; it’s not cared for, the split ends visible even in the dim light.

“Nakura-san?”

Izaya smiles, caressing his hair and it isn’t soft to the touch. It doesn’t smell of strawberries either - it’s a little more like watermelon candy. He walks off the dance floor and Kida follows, of course, he does, turning Izaya around by the wrist to kiss him hard, teeth clacking against each other. The force of the motion makes Izaya fall, sitting on Yukari’s table. She laughs, shouting “Get ‘em!”

Izaya doesn’t kiss back, instead, he pushes Kida as gently as he can. “I’m sorry, I’m not for you, kid.”

“What? I’m not-”

“Don’t lie to me, Kida-kun. You’re not old enough to even be allowed in here. How you got that drink is beyond me. And, anyway, I’m not you’re age or near it, for that matter.”

Kida doesn’t seem like he’s all that surprised. Not so much the age; but by Izaya’s rejection. “H-how old are you then?”

“Twenty-four.”

“W-what? I-I thought…”

Izaya smirks then and though the sharp edges of it haven’t dulled, Yukari can only feel fondness as opposed to intimidation. “Good genes?” he shrugs.

Kida chuckles nervously. “Yeah… Um… a-are you going to tell on me?”

“No, but you’ll be coming with me.”

“Where?”

“I’m calling you a cab and you’re going home, Kida-kun.”

“Yeah, ok.”

When Kida gets in the cab, Izaya slips a business card with a link printed on it into his hands before closing the door and signaling the car drive off.

“That was eventful,” Yukari says, placing Shizuo's coat over his shoulders.

“I’m going home too,” he says, slipping his arms into the sleeves. 

“Ah, the night hasn’t even started!”

He leers. “I’m not staying to watch you leave with some other man that isn’t me, Yukari-chan! I’m jealous like that!”

She laughs and in the silence of the night, her laughter can be heard a few streets away. “Alright. Be careful out there, yeah?”

“Of course, who do you think I am?” he faux-huffs.

"My baby boy, duh!" and she kisses him on the cheek, watching him walk towards Shinjuku until she loses sight of him.

\----------

The windows to Shinjuku are fogged, raindrops slipping on the glass.

     The wheels rumble against the tracks. The engine grumbles. The speed makes the carts tremble. His wagon is empty and silent in spite of the noise of the growling train. Outside, in the distance, mist accumulates like the smoke that rises from chimneys and the end of cigarettes. The city is alive, regardless, as it always is. It waits for no one, pulsating around him and moving into him like currents. He throws his head back, the cold exploding into his cranium. He closes his eyes on a sigh, hugging the coat closer to his body to shield himself from the chill of the night, popping the collar to his face. He smiles; it smells like home.

Izaya takes out his cellphone and dials. It barely rings once when he’s welcomed by an enthusiastic, “Orihara-san!”

He chuckles. “Aimi-chan, hello.”

“How are you doing? I’ve missed you! I’ve had to deal with so many snobby assho- huh? Oh! Good night Miss… ugh, asshole. She didn’t even look my way!”

Izaya grins. “Who was that?”

“Your downstairs’ neighbor.”

“Oh, yes, yes. She’s much like a bulldog, don’t you think?”

“Oh my gosh! Yes! The similarity is uncanny! I can’t believe I hadn’t made the connection before! A genius, that’s what you are!” she laughs - snorting too. “Oh, gosh, I didn’t even let you answer! I apologize! So sorry! How are you, Orihara-san?”

“I’m good, thanks for asking.”

“Always! You’re the only one in this building I like!”

“Oh, you flatter me so!”

“Of course, I will! I just said it and I meant it! You’re my favorite! The love of my receptionist's life!”

“Good to know. I do hope your boyfriend isn’t the jealous type though!" He chuckles.

“He won’t have to know!” She laughs. “Oh my,” she sobers, “I’ve been rambling again, haven’t I? Dear goodness! My mouth just runs from me, you know? Tell me, why did you call me?”

“Yes. I have a job for you.”

“Oh? What job?”

“Can you send someone over to change my locks?”

“Of course! Is there a particular reason?”

“Well-”

“Oh, gosh. Please don’t answer! I’m so sorry Orihara-san! I didn’t mean to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong!”

“It's fine, Aimi-chan. Calm yourself. It’s nothing to be concerned about. I’ve lived in that loft for six years and I’ve never changed my locks. I was thinking that I've given copies of the key to unsavory people in that time, you understand?”

“Oh! Yes! We don’t want pesky exes getting weird ideas with my favorite tenant!”

“Ah, you’re a darling! Just precious!”

“Orihara-san, please!” she laughs. “I’ll send someone right away for you, ok?”

“Perfect. I appreciate it, Aimi-chan. By the way, how are you doing?”

“Great! Oh! Oh! I forgot to tell you! I just haven’t seen you in a while, you know? And I didn’t want to ring you up just for that! I won’t be working for a week, maybe even two.”

“Why? Is everything alright?”

“Yes! It's just my mom isn’t feeling too well so I’m going to visit her in Kyoto.”

“I’ll miss your wonderful voice!”

“Wah! Orihara-san! Stop!”

“And don’t even get me started on your face! What will my life become without it!”

“Oh, you’ve done it! I’m a blushing mess!”

“I wish I could see! You’re adorable when you’re flustered!”

“Oh my gosh! You’re too much!”

“I try!” and his grin is in his voice too.

She giggles. “Anyway,” she breathes out dramatically, “I’ll get to it. Hopefully, by the time you’re back, you’ll have new locks. My shift is ending soon, though, so your key will be with the next receptionist.”

“That’s no problem at all.”

“I hope I see you before I leave for my little vacation but if not, have a wonderful time without me!”

“How will I survive? Why must you leave me alone?”

“I’m greatly sorry, my emperor, it must be done!” She laughs. “Goodnight, Orihara-san!”

“Good night,” and he hangs up.

     The screech of steel against steel roars as the train stops. His body sways with the pressure until it completely halts. The doors open and the force of the frozen breeze rustles his hair away from his face. The frost of the wind kisses the tip of his nose as soon as he’s out of the train. He thinks of getting a cab but decides against it. There’s a spring to his steps as he walks the rest of the way from the station to his complex.

     When he makes it to his building, he takes the new key from the male receptionist and takes the elevator up. He opens the door and enters his apartment, locking the deadbolt with something akin to tranquility inside his muscles, sagging as he finally makes it home – or a semblance of it, anyway. He takes off his shoes as he heads to the living room, shedding the coat, his pants, and his underwear on the way. He’s too tired to head up the stairs, his eyelids drooping as the seconds run past him. He puts on Shizuo’s over-sized sweater and lays on the sectional, taking the blanket and bringing up his chin. He falls asleep almost as soon as he lays his head on the throw pillow, a smile on his face. Peace bursts inside his chest at the thought of cozy apartments with hot chocolate and muted televisions, soothing voices and gold-specked eyes, broad shoulders in stretched-out fabric and old-fashioned bow-ties.

Izaya dreams of safe, and love, and  _home_.

He dreams of Shizuo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nightmare is the "final fight" from canon and a kurkri is the type of knife Izaya used in it.
> 
> This chapter is heavily about kisses...if you couldn't tell, haha.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments below!  
> -3B
> 
> PS. Check out my Shizuo/Izaya one-shot ["The Lowest Point of the Sun."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16703554) Hope you enjoy!


End file.
